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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28244967">Art Exhibit</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thumbbird/pseuds/thumbbird'>thumbbird</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>“Tracy Island makes a good breeding ground.” [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Thunderbirds</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anderbad forever, Art appreciation, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Light Bondage (blame Man from M15), Misunderstandings, Penelope and Rhapsody Angel used to work together so here we are, Penelope is touch-starved, Penvirge, Portrait of a Gazelle, Secret Identities, Slow Burn, TOS Thunderbirds, That abstract painting of alan, The Duchess Assignment, The Perils of Penelope, it’s about the Yearning</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 18:08:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>80,779</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28244967</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thumbbird/pseuds/thumbbird</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Virgil Tracy wants to prove to himself and his family that he has real artistic talent. But he never expected his abstract painting of Alan to sell that quickly—and to a mysterious buyer interested in purchasing more of his work. </p><p>When Penelope Creighton-Ward recognizes Virgil’s painting hanging in a gallery, she has to bring it home with her. Keeping her identity a secret from him is a must: she can’t risk disappointing him if he knew a family friend was buying them. More than that, he can’t know she wants them because she cares for him more than she should. </p><p>Neither can forget the moment they shared in the Anderbad tunnel. Their roles as artist and patron will slowly bring them together.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aloysius Parker/Lilian the Cook, Penelope Creighton-Ward/Virgil Tracy, Tin-Tin Kyrano/Alan Tracy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>“Tracy Island makes a good breeding ground.” [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2278967</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>141</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. I Saw a Picture of You Today</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Virgil Tracy played his brothers onto the stage, so to speak, as they came and went into the lounge with their hands full of potential donations. His fingers plucked out a jaunty tune, each note teasing them to move faster. Gordon actually did a little two-step and whistled as he left his model trains for collection. If Virgil remembered correctly, Gordon hadn’t even taken the tracks out of the box before he got bored with the idea and moved on to taking up the ukulele. Which lasted for a month, tops, before he stole Grandma’s knitting needles and tried to teach himself how to make a hat. Virgil bit back a smile and looked down at the keys. He should help Gordon find the ukulele. Wherever it was, it must be covered in dust.</p><p>The bi-annual Tracy Villa cleanup was an occasion. As proud as their father was of the villa he had built to his taste, it still lacked the capacity to serve as a storage locker. So twice a year, Thunderbird 5 was forbidden to call in with any rescues for a few hours—as long as it took for everyone on the island to add to the donation pile destined for the mainland. Virgil always found himself the last brother to contribute. It wasn’t intentional, but picking items was a delicate process; sometimes what they chose to give away said too much about themselves.</p><p>“Virgil,” Alan whined, stamping into the room. “Will you get off that piano and help me out?”</p><p>“But I was just about to dip myself,” Gordon said, setting his box down on the table.</p><p>Alan blinked. “I don’t know how you would do that without a partner,” he said, “and also, your spine wouldn’t thank you for trying.”</p><p>Virgil stopped in the middle of the tune, worried about the possibility. Gordon had made a spectacular recovery from his hydrofoil accident, but he’d never be the same. A little creaky maybe, and stiff if he neglected his stretching exercises.</p><p>“You’re no fun,” Gordon muttered. But in a second, the storm cloud across his face disappeared and he was off again, whistling.</p><p>Virgil covered the keys with the fallboard and stood up from his chair. “What’s the matter, Alan? Having a hard time parting with your stuff?”</p><p>“You could say that again.” Alan pointed at the pile of pulp fiction books on the floor and scowled. “John makes it look so easy. He always has enough to get rid of.”</p><p>“That’s because he reads, unlike you,” Virgil teased, falling into step with his younger brother.</p><p>“I read! Just not as much as he does. I’m too busy <em>rescuing</em> people,” Alan said.</p><p>Virgil glanced at the books as they left the room. John was the only Tracy who actually seemed to enjoy the clean outs. Usually on rotation on TB5 during both events, he’d always leave his pile of books early before heading back into space. Jeff would let the stacks sit in the lounge, a not-so-subtle reminder of what was to come. For his part, John seemed to enjoy excelling in the one area his brothers couldn’t.</p><p>Virgil had to agree with Alan on one point: John <em>did</em> have it easier, if only because the space case seemed to rocket through his books. Reading must have helped his brother stay awake on long nights of monitoring frequencies. He probably even read in the bath to keep himself from inhaling bubbles.</p><p>Alan opened his closet and spread his hands. “Well, where can I start?”</p><p>“Your clothes?” Virgil asked. They all had a little too much clothing for boys rarely seen out in public. They really only had each other to dress for—except for Alan, who had Tin-Tin to impress.</p><p>Alan slapped Virgil’s hand away when he tried to reach for a hanger. “First convince Dad to get rid of his flamingo shirt.”</p><p>Virgil laughed. “That’ll never happen.” He looked at the mountain of shoes at the bottom of Alan’s closet. “What about shoes? When’s the last time you wore some of these?”</p><p>Alan frowned, but gave in. He sat cross-legged in front of the closet and yanked shoes out, causing the others to tumble into his lap like scuffed-up puppies.</p><p>After a fair amount of time and a lot of arguing, Virgil had convinced Alan to part ways with four pairs of shoes and three pairs of sunglasses. The sunglasses had been trickier, but Virgil had to lie to convince his brother to let go of them. “Tin-Tin talked about these just a few weeks ago,” he said, turning a hideous pair of bug-eyed glasses in his hands. “I overheard her telling Scott you looked like a praying mantis in them.”</p><p>Alan, horrified, quickly threw the offending sunglasses into his pile without another word.</p><p>By the time they carried Alan’s donations back to the lounge, Scott had made his appearance. The room went quiet. Virgil swallowed, hugging Alan’s shoes to his chest. He didn’t dare move. Beside him, Alan sucked on his lower lip to keep from speaking. Gordon stood near the veranda, plucking the strings of a guitar Virgil couldn’t remember him owning, but he stopped as Scott bent over the pile of donations and added what he found to it.</p><p>Scott placed a perfectly good frying pan in the pile, marred by a few burn scars. Next went a candy thermometer, tongs, a whisk, and a melting pot too tiny to get much use. Virgil had helped in the kitchen enough to know that none of these supplies belonged to Grandma Tracy, Kyrano, or Tin-Tin. Which was why he kept his mouth shut.</p><p>Scott frowned, daring any of them to say a word about what he left, and stalked off before they could change their minds.</p><p>“Do you think he asked for a bigger melting pot for Christmas?” Gordon asked. Loudly.</p><p>Alan pressed a finger to his lips. “He could still be listening!”</p><p>Virgil’s mouth twitched. Vulnerabilities indeed. He didn’t know why Scott even bothered keeping it a secret. Everyone knew he stress baked. Big Brother Scott seemed to do nothing but worry in his spare time, and it got so bad after a series of less-than-perfect missions that he ended up haunting the kitchen night after night. He seemed to bake mainly. Or make candy. Virgil had woken up a few times at midnight to the smell of burnt caramel. But the next morning, the fridge provided no proof of Scott’s experiments.</p><p>So they figured it out pretty quickly: Scott not only stress baked but stress ate in the same night. He’d sit right down at the table and systemically shoveled chocolate cake, or marshmallows, or licorice into his mouth until every last crumb of evidence was gone. One time Gordon had snuck into the kitchen to beg for a treat, and Scott was so ashamed that he refused to speak to Gordon for a whole week.</p><p>“That leaves just you, Virgil,” Alan said. “Better hurry. Dad’s probably itching to reconnect with Thunderbird 5.”</p><p>Unease prickled his skin as he went to his room. The fun drained out of the day now that he had to focus on himself. Virgil’s closet was pretty threadbare; he’d donated older clothes before, and knew what he had left wasn’t much more flattering. Maybe he should let Tin-Tin pick something out the next time she flew to the mainland...</p><p>Virgil’s skin felt clammy. His fingers dug into his plaid bedspread. “Forget it,” he muttered. “You’re over her.”</p><p>He was. His crush on Tin-Tin had died the day Alan came out of retirement to race at Parola Sands and pick up Grandma to live with them on the island permanently. Tin-Tin hadn’t been able to tear her eyes away from Alan as his sports car disappeared down the road, taking her heart with it. Virgil had quietly stepped aside and let them have their romance. Not that he had actually fought for her attention anyway. He just didn’t have that in him. Aggression was for maneuvering Thunderbird 2 through storms and hunting down saboteurs. Not for putting feelings into words.</p><p>Virgil gathered his old paintings and sketchbooks, putting them on the bed. He thought about how different he was from his brothers. Alan was just so young and unfiltered; he felt and everyone knew it. If Scott wanted to woo a girl (if he ever stopped thinking about International Rescue long enough), he had only to flash his dimples. Gordon was impulsive and fun; he could make anyone laugh, and even Virgil lost his breath when Gordon saved the day with gun blazing. Then John, well, he was the quiet one. Too pretty to waste away in space, but too inexperienced to be trusted with a solo mission. Yet his isolation in TB5 might make him braver than Virgil, eager to leap while Virgil would rather keep his feet on the ground.</p><p>He scrubbed his face. Tried to stop the flow of negative thoughts. “Find something to donate,” he reminded himself. The sooner he did, the sooner he could go back to the comfort of his piano.</p><p>Virgil looked over the paintings he’d completed over the past six months. Not too many thanks to an influx in rescue missions. He selected three of them that were unremarkable—like sketches hastily slapped with paint. Palm trees and the aquamarine sea. He wouldn’t miss them.</p><p>Then he came across <em>Victory</em> and his chest hurt again. He picked up the painting and examined it. This was the painting he had done of Alan to commemorate him winning first place in the Parola Sands race. He had planned to paint Alan straight, but then there was Tin-Tin, rubbing lotion on the worst of Alan’s sunburns. Resting her head on his shoulder. Squeezing his arm. Virgil lost himself in his own heartache and transformed Alan on canvas into the abstract menace he was looking at today.</p><p>“I think it’s one of my best,” Virgil says, seeing it with new eyes. Still, Alan refused to let him hang it anywhere in the villa.</p><p>Wouldn’t it be something if this painting had a life somewhere else? Not languishing in a charity shop somewhere. Maybe a gallery. Virgil’s pulse quickened.</p><p>He knocked over another painting of a palm tree in his excitement. He had never tried to sell his paintings. He didn’t need the money. Painting was a hobby for him, like playing piano, and he had never felt the need to seek validation for it outside the villa. But maybe he had just been kidding himself. Alan’s heated words about the painting had hit him hard. Still bothered him, even today, and made him question his skills as an artist. “I should find out if I’m any good, shouldn’t I?”</p><p>Virgil knew he’d have to keep it a secret. His father wouldn’t object as long as it was done in total secrecy. He could never reveal who he was. But he didn’t want to tell Dad about this. He wanted proof that his artwork was good enough to be bought first. He wanted to show them all something tangible. Something he could hold in his hands. A sale receipt could feel as heavy as a trophy, couldn’t it?</p><p>Virgil opened the sketchbook he had started a few months ago. He flipped through the pages full of his studies of flora and fauna on the island, the shape of the sand, froth running over bare toes in the surf. But he’d been sketching people too. His brothers, of course. But then.. he’d sketched Penelope.</p><p>He’d started by trying to capture her face using the her portrait hanging in the lounge, but the charcoal never curved in the way her cheek had felt when he’d touched it. He couldn’t capture that on paper. When she came to visit the island, he’d almost knocked over a chair to reach his sketchbook, hastily scratching the shapes she made while playing chess with Gordon or drinking in the view on the veranda with Dad.</p><p>No, his crush on Tin-Tin had been over long ago. There was someone else. An impossible someone. Penelope had probably never thought of that moment in tunnel again. But it snuck up on Virgil at times. The way her skin on his palm felt petal-soft. Her lipstick had worn off at some point during her capture. He’s never seen her without that slash of color on her lips. Pale pink, he realized. Her lips were actually the palest pink, like the inside of a seashell washed up on the island. Virgil had spent hours trying to match that color with his paints.</p><p>So Virgil nursed a new crush. One he had no intention doing anything about. This was Penelope Crieghton-Ward. She was as out of reach as the stars.</p><p>But the painting. The painting was tangible. He could sell this one first. Get Alan’s twisted face off the island for good and get paid for it. It was a start. A chance for something new.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward watched the pigeons. They must have been hungry, snatching flakes of lemon drizzle cake too tiny for human eyes off the concrete. She hooked her finger through the teacup handle and just left it there, eyes following the gray birds as they pecked and shook their wings.</p><p>“Penny?” A voice called her back.</p><p>“Yes, dear?” she replied, a smile curling at the corners of her mouth. For a second, she forgot who she was having lunch with.</p><p>“Your tea is getting cold,” Dianne Simms said. Her red hair fell down her back, catching in the zipper of her quilted coat, her blunt bangs flattened down to perfection across her forehead.</p><p>“So it is,” Penelope said, soft with wonder. Where had her mind gone? Anderbad. Back to the monotrain tunnel where the weight of that warm hand rested on her cheek in the dark.</p><p>She lifted the cup to her lips and took a sip. Earl Gray: a steady, familiar flavor. “Don’t you find this weather soothing? Maybe too soothing, for me. I could have dozed in my chair.”</p><p>The air was chilly, just short of their breaths fogging, with clouds covering up the sun.</p><p>Dianne snorted. Somehow it came off as ladylike. “I think you’re not getting enough sleep. The new job keeping you busy?”</p><p>“It hasn’t been new for quite some time.” Penelope set down her cup. “But thank you for pretending like we haven’t aged at all since then.”</p><p>It had been years since Penelope hung up her hat at the Federal Agents Bureau, intrigued and more than a little hungry for something new when Jeff Tracy had pitched his idea to her of a secret rescue organization.</p><p>Once upon a time, Penelope had led FAB; she had recognized herself in young Dianne Simms, took her under her wing and showed her that there was, indeed, more to wealth and status than endless parties. There was danger—both women craved it like chocolate—and the satisfaction of a job well done. Dianne took over as FAB’s commander when she left, and the weight of the job seemed to have only made Dianne more sure of herself. But behind Dianne’s sharp eyes was that itch to move on. Maybe not now, but soon. Penelope knew what that felt like.</p><p>To anyone who happened to be walking through the courtyard of the Hughes Art Gallery, they’d only see two women taking tea, sinking forks into their twin chocolate raspberry tarts and swapping gossip.</p><p>“It’s good to see you again,” Dianne said, touching the back of Penelope’s hand. “I’m glad you asked me to meet you here.”</p><p>Penelope relished the brief touch. The bloom of heat on her chapped knuckles. She didn’t let on, of course. Too much affection even between friends was improper. Her back straightened in her chair. “It won’t be very exciting, I’m afraid. You see, I promised an old acquaintance that I’d help her ensure that her rental of the family painting goes through without a hitch. She’s fallen on hard times. She needs the money.”</p><p>Dianne nods. “The painting’s here? At the exhibition?”</p><p>“Only for a few more days. She can’t pull it early. Part of the contract with the gallery.” Penelope cut a neat slice of tart and popped it in her mouth. “It’s a Braquasso.”</p><p>Dianne whistled. “You wouldn’t want to let one of those out of your sight.”</p><p>“Exactly.” Penelope sighed. “As beautiful as it is, I’ve seen it every day now. I’m getting quite tired of it.”</p><p>“Don’t worry. I’m very good at being entertaining. You’ll feel like you’re looking at the exhibition with new eyes today!”</p><p>Penelope hoped so. She couldn’t even convince Parker to come in with her anymore. They finished their tea and tarts in comfortable silence, mostly, except for when Dianne let a few details of her current espionage assignment slip. They each had their secrets, but trusted each other enough to share some details—at least, when it came to their jobs.</p><p>Sharing something closer to her heart was still difficult. She couldn’t put into words the thought that had caused her to stare too long as the pigeons—the thought about a certain Tracy. Penelope ate her tart quickly. Speared each raspberry one by one with the points of her fork. The tea did turn cold by the time she reached the dregs.</p><p>The Hughes Art Gallery may have been charming on the outside, but it was severe on the inside with concrete walls and a cheap tile floor that made sucking sounds when she walked. And yet, people from all over England came to see this exhibition. Not in droves—it wasn’t that popular—but she had told Parker to keep his eye on the guestbook just to see if any suspicious visitors came and went. So far, she was the only one to sign each consecutive day.</p><p>The blue sign in the back of the gallery proudly stated: EXHIBITION OF 20TH CENTURY ART. The guard next to the sign snuffled in his sleep, chin to his chest.</p><p>“This isn’t my taste,” Dianne confessed, linking arms with Penelope as they wandered like lost stars through the gallery space. “I prefer paintings of things that... look like things! Not one for abstraction. We get enough of that in real life, don’t we?”</p><p>Penelope smiled. Ah, but she loved a good bit of abstract, in moderation. She liked to guess what the shapes could mean, why the colors shouted or whispered on the canvas. She didn’t mind so much that quizzing a living artist would be her only way getting a solid answer. “Then you’ll love the Braquasso.”</p><p>“Show me,” Dianne said, grinning.</p><p>Penelope steered Dianne toward the painting. “<em>Portrait of a Gazelle</em>,” she said, by way of introduction. “A Braquasso original.”</p><p>Dianne sucked in her breath. “Oh my.”</p><p>Penelope stepped back to give Dianne space to admire it. Penelope let her hands fall to her sides, relaxed, as she took it in once more. The gazelle stole the center of the canvas, posing majestically with hard, flat eyes. A desert background added a sense of great loneliness to it, along with long abandoned white pillars and rocks curling like fingers out of the sand. Penelope understood why the Duchess of Royston refused to sell it outright—and why a man like Wilbur Dandridge so badly wanted it for his company, Gazelle Automations in New York. It was a compelling painting, asking something of the viewer. Thankfully they agreed to Penelope’s idea of a six month rental of the painting.</p><p>As Dianne moved in closer to admire the brushwork, Penelope’s attention strayed. She turned in a slow circle, looking. There was the one sculpture in the middle of the room reminiscent of a woman rising from the muddy earth. A bust of a man’s head occupied another nook (Penelope thought it was badly done, the material looking like gold tinfoil covering perfectly good marble). Then there were the paintings that could have been siblings of each other: paint splatters on dark canvas. Not as thought-provoking as the other pieces in the room. But then..</p><p>Penelope made a little noise in the back of her throat. She spotted a painting she hadn’t seen before, hanging in a corner most guests would overlook.</p><p>“Say Penny, where do you think Braquasso got the idea? Why a gazelle?” Dianne asked.</p><p>But Penelope was already walking away.</p><p>“What’s the matter?” Dianne matched her pace.</p><p>“I’ve never seen this one before,” Penelope said. “It’s new. But I feel like... I know that face.”</p><p>Dianne cocked her head. “What face? It’s just a bunch of shapes.”</p><p>Penelope ran her eyes over the painting. Her instincts kicked in. Not danger but... familiarity. The sky was powdery blue, dusted with wispy clouds, and water—an ocean?—swallowed the horizon. The subject was a person of some kind. The face was split in half, one side shaped like a crescent moon with an eye, ear, and mouth, while his right eye stared impossibly straight ahead at the viewer. The man, Penelope thought, had a dollop of blonde hair, wore green clothes, and held a trophy that maintained its shape so well that Penelope identified it immediately.</p><p>“Alan Tracy,” she murmured, delighted. He’d earned that racing trophy so long ago. That was back when Grandmother Tracy had first decided to live on the island with the boys. And yet here was a painting of that moment, right in front of her at some little gallery in England. How did it get here? Why was it here?</p><p>Virgil was the only artist in the Tracy family. Her heart did a funny dance in her chest. Not ladylike. She pressed her hand over it, willing it to stop.</p><p>As far as she knew, he kept all of his artwork on the island. Had it embarrassed Alan? Alan had a bit of a temper on him, couldn’t take a joke if it was at his expense. But if Alan wanted the painting gone, why did Virgil let it be displayed here, where someone might recognize Alan?</p><p>Penelope sighed. The likelihood of anyone pulling Alan from this painting was probably slim. She leaned in and found the letters “V.T.” scrawled in the righthand corner of the painting. <em>V.T.</em> Her lips quirked. He wasn’t even making it hard to guess. The placard told her the name of the painting: VICTORY.</p><p>“I must find Reginald,” Penelope said. She didn’t want let the painting out of her sight, but she simply had to if it was coming home with her.</p><p>Dianne blinked. “You can’t be serious? Is it even for sale?”</p><p>“Come on,” Penelope said, leading her friend through the exhibit and back towards the offices. She knew this building by heart. She and Parker had examined every inch of it to ensure that no one could find an alternative way in and steal <em>Portrait</em> <em>of a Gazelle</em> under their noses. So she knew that the door at the end of the hallway belonged to Reginald Lawson, gallery owner and art dealer on the side. Her file on him said he offset his gallery expenses by representing up-and-coming artists, selling their paintings and sculptures to other galleries if they wouldn’t agree to being shown in his.</p><p>“I’ll wait outside,” Dianne offered, leaning on the wall outside the office. “Wouldn’t want to interrupt business.” Then she winked. Whatever that meant.</p><p>She took a deep breath before entering his office. Composed herself. Checked her pearly-pink nails for flakes (finding none) and stepped through the doorway. “Mr. Lawson,” she said, sinking into the chair opposite him.</p><p>“Lady Penelope,” Reginald said, pushing his magazine to the side in haste. “What do I owe the pleasure?”</p><p>Penelope’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Tell me why <em>Victory</em> is sitting in an exhibition alongside paintings of historical significance.”</p><p>Reginald ears turned red. “You noticed.”</p><p>“Why wouldn’t I?”</p><p>Reginald blushed even harder. “Well, you see, I’m in a bind. I agreed to represent a new artist sight unseen. One could say I owed a favor. Imagine my surprise when I unwrapped that.” Reginald plucked a tissue and dabbed his face with it, as if the cloth could absorb his embarrassment. “The style is hundreds of years old. Not to the taste of any modern buyers of art. History buffs wouldn’t even touch it once they knew it wasn’t from the 20th century like the others. So where could I put it? I hung it in a corner where I had hoped no one would take notice of it.”</p><p>Penelope’s heart crashed against her rib cage. How tiresome. Even her palms were sweating as she gripped her purse. “And who is this troublesome artist?”</p><p>Reginald shrugged. “He wishes his identity to remain a secret. I hope you can respect that.”</p><p>“I suppose I have to. For now.” She snapped open her purse. “Sell me the painting.”</p><p>Reginald’s head snapped up. “I beg your pardon?”</p><p>“Whatever the asking price is, I’ll pay it.” She drew out her checkbook and a pink pen. “Though I only ask in return two things.”</p><p>Reginald swallowed thickly. His eyes on the checkbook. He clearly thought he’d never sell Virgil’s painting. “They are?”</p><p>“Let my identity as the buyer be a secret as well.” She smiled as if her heart wasn’t caught in her throat. As if her hands weren’t shaking as she clicked her pen. “And second, that if he provides you any more paintings to sell, I get the first look at them.”</p><p>Reginald eyed the checkbook. He licked his lips. “But my lady, I don’t understand.”</p><p>She hadn’t expected to explain herself. It would be hard enough with Dianne. Penelope adjusted her purse in her lap where it sat like a dog. “It’s charity,” she said, reaching for one of her favorite cover stories. “My father believed in supporting the arts. I have an allowance to spend on making dreams come true, you see. Every artist deserves a chance to shine. Even the ones with somewhat antique tastes in style.”</p><p>Penelope was proud of herself. Her little speech sounded believable enough. Reginald didn’t protest again. He told her the figure—too small for Virgil’s talent—and she filled out the check and handed it over. Reginald would wrap the painting himself and deliver to the car where Parker was waiting. All was going according to plan.</p><p>“You want first look, huh?” Dianne said after Penelope left the office. Of course she had been listening. “Who is the mysterious artist, Penelope, and why are you all but promising to buy whatever this man paints?”</p><p>“Charity,” she said again, and her voice echoed falsely down the cold gray hallway.</p><p>Dianne jabbed Penelope in the side. “You can’t lie to me. I’ll find out eventually.”</p><p>Penelope didn’t answer. Her thoughts returned to that tunnel. The gunshot and the monotrain horn and the ladder falling with her still tied to it. Virgil threw his body over hers as the monotrain passed overhead. His hand cupped the back of her head. Then slid to her cheek and rested there, his palm warm and steady. In the darkness, lit up by the passing train, his gaze had cradled her. There was no other way to put it. That look of his put a soft ache in her chest.</p><p>Penelope Creighton-Ward told herself her world had no room for these feelings. But she blew on the flames from time to time, remembering it when she felt just a bit too cold.</p><p>Maybe allowing herself to keep his paintings was all she needed. It could be just enough to ease that ache.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Art Exhibit On Memory Lane</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which Virgil has to share his secret with John, or else risk early exposure. And Penny operates from the sidelines to make sure the Duchess’s Braquasso arrives in NY safely.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Virgil returned to the island in the evening, he was sweat-soaked and trembling from exertion. Beside him, Gordon made squelching noises and left puddles on the floor. They’d been been called away to evacuate a private yacht that had taken on water too far from shore for the coast guard to reach them in time. Thunderbird 2 hadn’t even been quite as fast as they’d hoped; by the time he had dropped Gordon into the water in his bird, the yacht was almost completely gone, save for the guests and crew huddled at the bow, clinging to the railings in their life vests.</p><p>Gordon left his bird to swim over and drag the terrified guests off the yacht before they could get sucked under from the force of sinking. The captain would not go quietly; he had planned to drown with his yacht, knowing he could not afford to replace his only money-maker. When Gordon alone wasn’t enough to secure the hysterical man, Virgil had to leave his own bird then. They’d managed to save everyone before the yacht completely went under, but it was a close one. Virgil couldn’t get the captain’s ugly sobs out his head. It had been a long flight to the hospital. Neither Tracy had remembered to use Thunderbird 2’s shower before they reached home.</p><p>“Boys, how did it go?” Jeff asked from behind his desk, even though of course he already knew their every move. It was protocol. The debriefing.</p><p>Virgil settled into a chair and let Gordon take the reins on rehashing the rescue. His uniform stuck to his skin. He felt itchy all over and his head hurt from having taken a few hits from the captain when they tried to drag him off the yacht.</p><p>Gordon shivered in his chair, his teeth chattered as he recounted the number of guests, some still fisting their afternoon cocktails as the yacht slipped lower into the water. “I had to t-t-t-tell them to finish their d-drinks,” Gordon said. “C-Can you believe that?”</p><p>Jeff frowned, the wrinkles at his brow more pronounced these days. He scratched down what Gordon said on the report sheet and Virgil realized he was cutting them a break tonight, since they were both staining the chairs and creating a mess for Kyrano and Grandma to mop up later. “Different people have different priorities,” he replied in his gravelly voice. “But I for one have never had a drink worth dying for.”</p><p>Gordon snickered. Virgil managed a smile.</p><p>“Now get cleaned up and to bed,” Jeff ordered, his voice softened in dad-mode. “You never know when the next call will come in.”</p><p>“Has John h-heard anything?” Gordon asked.</p><p>Jeff shook his head. “Nothing yet. But Lady Penelope is currently on a personal assignment she may need help with.”</p><p>Virgil heart juddered. “Lady Penelope?”</p><p>“It’s about the D-Duchess, right?” Gordon shifted his weight and his whole body seemed to squelch.</p><p>Virgil yanked his chair and sat back in it, ignoring his body’s bruised state. Ignoring everything but his father and what he would say about Penelope next. He knew about the air show that Dad went to this past weekend, meeting Lady Penelope at the London Airport so they could watch the new WAF Wombat carrier in action. If the seawater hadn’t rotted his brain, he recalled that Lady Penelope was trying to help the Duchess of Royston, her old friend, earn back the money she had lost gambling. “You took a detour to New York,” he said, his eyes never leaving his father. “You said the problem was solved.”</p><p>“I thought it had been. But the Duchess isn’t an easy customer,” Jeff said, scratching his chin. He looked glad enough not to have met the woman. “From what Penelope’s said, it looks like the Duchess’s money trouble is about to be solved. She’s to fly to New York personally to deliver a painting into the hands of Wilbur Dandridge, who wants to rent it from her. She refused to letPenelope deliver it for her. The flight to New York is tomorrow. Penelope will be watching her every move from her home and we’ll be on standby in case any part of this delivery goes wrong. We owe it to Lady Penelope, but also to Dandridge. He’s a good friend, sticking his neck and his wallet out for this gazelle painting.”</p><p>“Well,” Virgil said softly, “it <em>is</em> a Braquasso, right?”</p><p>Jeff shrugged. “Extremely valuable. A classic. So they say.” Then he sat up in his chair, chin raised. “But I have all the fine art I need in this house. Painted by my own son.”</p><p>Virgil flushed. He laced his fingers together, squeezing them tight. “Thank you, Father. But I can’t imagine anyone going through such trouble for one of <em>my</em> paintings.”</p><p>Before Jeff could respond, Gordon sneezed, making an inhuman noise Virgil likened to a helium-huffing mouse.</p><p>“Enough of this,” Jeff said, gruff. “Both of you get in the showers. The last thing we need is either of you catching colds. I’ll see you in the morning.”</p><p>“Yes, Father,” Virgil and Gordon said, almost in sync.</p><p>Virgil carried his father’s words with him into the shower, replaying them over and over as he soaped up and rinsed his bruises with hot water. It hadn’t been easy growing up in the shadow of his mother, being the only Tracy who had inherited her talent for music and art.</p><p>No one had taken the loss of Lucille Tracy well. Least of all Jeff. But Virgil ended up the most like her and that had taken Jeff a lot longer to reconcile than any of them expected. There had been times when they were all still children when Virgil woke up to the sound of his father crying. He’d gone to investigate, peeking through the crack in the door, and saw the great Jeff Tracy cradling Virgil’s drawings and trying not to drop any incriminating tears on the pages.</p><p>Virgil had gotten scared then. He almost stopped drawing—knowing he was hurting his father—but he just couldn’t still his hands when he held a pencil. So on nights like those, Virgil would end up in Scott’s bed instead, burying his face in Scott’s armpit as his big brother pulled the covers over his head.</p><p>Gradually, things got better. Dad slept longer at night. Virgil’s drawings ended up on the fridge, curated by Jeff, and his younger brothers started showing interest too and made requests.</p><p>Scott asked for anything that flew—metal rather than feathers—so Virgil copied diagrams from his father’s aerospace books and consequently found his second passion in engineering. When Dad, and later Scott, took them to the aquarium to sate Gordon’s craving for sea life in the middle of landlocked Kansas, Virgil used to sketch from the big tanks, given the privilege to sit by himself. Gordon usually sunk his arms up to the elbows in the petting tanks and had to be wrangled before he smuggled a jellyfish out. Despite their age differences, John and Alan both asked for galaxies and spaceships and planets; this had led to his first paint lessons, taught by a local artist.</p><p>Over the years, Grandma came to him requesting vases bursting with wildflowers. Each time Brains brought another machine to life for International Rescue, Virgil immortalized it with brushstrokes. Not so long ago, Virgil tried to paint for Tin-Tin. She was like trying to catch a beam of light in his hands; his canvas remained blank and his sketches destined for the bin.</p><p>Virgil dragged his fingers through his hair, making sure he got all the soap out, and turned off the water. “The fact remains,” he muttered, wiping the steam off the bathroom mirror, “no one outside this island owns a Virgil Tracy original.”</p><p>Until now.</p><p>Virgil plugged in his hairdryer and styled his hair back away from his forehead, like usual. His thoughts turned to Reginald Lawson. Victory was in the art dealer’s hands. Alan’s distorted face hung somewhere in England—Lawson’s gallery, perhaps, or somewhere else. Virgil hadn’t asked for details. He didn’t want to know. But how long did it take a sell a piece of art? Should he have heard something by now? Two weeks. It had been two weeks.</p><p>Turning off the dryer, he smoothed his hair down and rolled his eyes at himself in the mirror. “You told him not to contact you unless it sold,” he muttered, almost fogging the glass with his nose. It was safer that way. Less of a chance his family would find out. But that made the waiting harder.</p><p>Virgil slipped on his bathrobe, cut from a garish fabric Alan had thought becoming, and tied the belt tight. As he crossed his bedroom, a flashing light at the telecall device caught his eye.</p><p>Each Tracy had a personal phone line in their bedroom connected to Thunderbird 5 and each other. Brains had modified the design of the public telecall booths, making them as compact and unobtrusive as a radio. Virgil sat down at his desk and flicked on the device.</p><p>John’s face materialized on screen. It was night on the island and yet John was still in uniform, that perfect blonde curl wasted on an audience who would never see him.</p><p>“John?” This was never good news. “Don’t tell me there’s another rescue. I was about to get some sleep.”</p><p>“I don’t know if I’m dealing with an emergency of not,” John said, tilting his head with narrowed eyes. “That’s for <em>you</em> to tell <em>me.</em>”</p><p>Fear dripped cold down Virgil’s spine. John didn’t do social calls. He wasn’t usually the one to initiate them either, preoccupied with the sounds of Earth cascading into his satellite—at least, that was what Virgil told himself to ease his conscience. He just didn’t understand John as much as he wanted to.</p><p>John was the middle child of five. Perhaps there wasn’t room for two space experts in one family. Maybe Alan being the pushier brother pushed John into the shadows one too many times. But in circumstances like these, John was in control. He had information at his fingertips that Virgil could not mask. And yet, Virgil still found himself trying to play dumb anyway. “What do you mean?”</p><p>“A certain Richard Lawson has been calling your personal line all day, Virgil,” John said, his voice hushed. John did not, as a habit, keep his voice down. He had no reason to, what with the thousands of voices coming over the frequencies to compete with.</p><p>Virgil swallowed.</p><p>“I thought it was strange. The minute his call came over, I redirected it to Thunderbird 5 since you were out.” John’s blue gaze was sharp. Neither frequencies, books, nor stars could distract him now.</p><p>“Dad doesn’t know?” Virgil asked.</p><p>“No one knows, except me,” John assured him. “But who is this Mr. Lawson? When I answered he said he needed to talk to you urgently. Something about a sale going through.”</p><p>Virgil’s heart kicked his ribs. If it beat too hard he might explode. Blood and heart-guts all over the rug. “<em>You’re</em> <em>kidding</em>!”</p><p>“How can I kid if I don’t know the joke?” John frowned. “He wouldn’t tell me a thing. Just got mad when it was my voice he kept getting on the line.”</p><p>Virgil rubbed his hands together. Took a deep, steadying breath. He hadn’t wanted anyone to know. But it was too late to lie. He was terrible at it, which was why he tried to stay out of trouble in the first place. “Can you keep a secret?” he asked.</p><p>To be fair, that was a stupid question. John was a book snapped shut by a dozen locks, the keys lost down throats with no bottoms. </p><p>But John took it in stride. His mouth twitched. “So many secrets. I hear them every day but I haven’t cashed in on any yet.”</p><p>Fair point. Virgil played with the end of his belt. Silk. It slid like water through his fingers. “I found one of Mom’s old contacts. She’d had more than one dealer selling her work. I called a few and he was the first to pick up. He’s supposed to sell my painting of Alan.” Virgil swallowed. “Sounds like maybe he did.”</p><p>Virgil expected John to ask why. It would have been a valid question. His shoulders rose to his ears, waiting for it to strike like an arrow.</p><p>“Wow-wee,” John said.</p><p>Virgil choked on his own spit. Buried his face in his hands and laughed. “You’re not,” he said between breaths, “supposed to say that. It killed the mood.”</p><p>“What mood? The one that was turning you into a statue?” John shrugged. “Stick to the canvas, Big Brother. You were never great at 3D art.”</p><p>Virgil lost his words. He just looked at his brother from between his fingers. How did John stay so.. composed? Sometimes he wondered if his brother had soaked up some kind of cosmic understanding there in the stars. And if he did, why didn’t Alan get some of that?</p><p>John’s gaze flicked somewhere off-screen. His brow crinkled. “There he is again. Mr. Lawson. Should I connect you?”</p><p>Virgil sucked in his breath. <em>This was it.</em> He nodded.</p><p>John’s arm moved. Reaching for a button. But he stopped. “Do you... can I listen in?”</p><p>He only had a moment to decide. And suddenly realized that he didn’t want to do this alone anymore. “Yes,” he croaked. “Yes, if you want to.”</p><p>John smiled—a real smile, a rare smile that stretched across his face like a meteor. Then John’s face disappeared and Reginald replaced him.</p><p>“Where have you been, Virg, old boy?” Reginald said, his face flushed with excitement and maybe a few glasses of champagne. “I’ve been trying to reach you all day. I have big news!”</p><p>Virgil glanced at the door. Made sure it was locked—of course it was locked, he had three other brothers in the villa—and said, “I’m so sorry, Mr. Lawson. My job keeps me away from my desk. Field work, you know.”</p><p>“Oh but someone answered each time,” Reginald insisted. There, the shimmer of a glass lip, appeared and disappeared for a second. “You told me not to talk to a soul if it wasn’t you on the other line. Boy, you ask a lot of me. Lucky your mother was such a gem.”</p><p>Virgil let the comment roll by without lodging in his ribcage. He decided to let John in. Now he needed to show it. “I’ve thought it over. There’s one other person you can share news with. The man you talked to today. John Tracy, my brother. If you get him and not me, you can leave your messages with him. I trust he’ll deliver them to me.”</p><p>Reginald sighed. “Oh good. That’ll make these talks so much easier.”</p><p>Talks? As in, plural? Virgil leaned closer to the screen. “You sold the painting, didn’t you?”</p><p>Reginald laughed. Hiccuped. “Faster than I ever imagined, boy! You got your asking price. I’ve taken my cut. The check’s in the mail, disguised as you requested. I made it look like I’m a salesman at a dealership trying to buy your old car.” He laughed like he thought himself clever. Like he’d had to do this before for other timid artists with something to hide. “Better hope no one will throw it away before you get to it.”</p><p>“Let me worry about that,” Virgil said. The money itself didn’t matter. But he’d still need the check to prove he did sell it.</p><p>“I intend to,” Reginald quipped.</p><p>Virgil played again with the belt. The silk was cool against his fevered skin. “Who bought the painting?”</p><p>“Someone who didn’t wish to reveal themselves,” Reginald said. The glass appeared again, holding amber liquid. “It’s only fair. You refuse to give <em>your</em> name. The person charmed by your art refuses to share theirs. Just know that they were sincere in how they felt about it. Would not walk out of the gallery without knowing it was going home with them.”</p><p>Virgil all but vibrated from the shock of it. Was he really sitting or was he floating out of his chair, destined to hit his head on the ceiling?</p><p>“In addition, they told me to inform them the very <em>second</em> you had something else to sell,” Reginald said. Smug and at ease. “How do you like that? It’s not every day you get a buyer that wants more, that fast. If ever, really.”</p><p>“More?” Virgil scrambled to understand. He felt so slow. So full and overwhelmed and thank god John was listening.</p><p>Reginald’s good humor vanished as fast as it appeared. His expression turned shrewd. “I expect your next painting by the end of the month. If not sooner.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Do you think buyers grow on trees? You have their interest now. That could change tomorrow,” Reginald said. “Strike while the iron’s hot.”</p><p>“But I don’t...” Virgil hated how fast he lost that euphoria. Panic swooped in to replace it. Oh too quickly. “<em>Victory’s</em> not my usual style.”</p><p>Reginald didn’t seem worried. “My instincts tell me this buyer doesn’t care about your style. They want whatever you’ve got, boy. <em>What. Ever. You’ve. Got.</em> Slap some paint on a canvas, do whatever you have to do to get your muse singing, and send it over on wings. For both our sakes, we need to see if this buyer is truthful about her interest.”</p><p><em>Her.</em> Virgil’s sunk his teeth into that one little slip up. A woman. A woman bought his painting. It shouldn’t matter. Really, it didn’t. But he could see the shadowy outline of this person now. Could actually imagine someone looking at the painting and deciding to take it home.</p><p>Reginald didn’t hear himself slip. He cheered the video camera with his glass and, with one more threat to meet the deadline, cut Virgil right off.</p><p>John’s face came back. They stared at each other as the clock on the wall ticked. “Wow-wee,” John said again, in awe. “You do paint fast. Think you can make it?”</p><p>Virgil ran a hand through his hair. <em>Her. Her. Her.</em> Painting, sold. Another one asked for. Did this buyer like palm trees? No, he needed something new. Real new.</p><p>“Virg?” John asked, dragging him back.</p><p>“I need you,” Virgil blurted. He hadn’t even thought of the phone situation before. This would happen again the next time a painting sold. He had to have someone redirect Richard’s calls away from the villa while he was away.</p><p>“I’m here,” John said. Then his mouth twitched. “At least for another month. Until it’s Alan’s turn.”</p><p>Oh god. Virgil hid his face again.</p><p>John chuckled. “Hey, I’m still stuck up here for another three weeks. We’ll figure it out when we get there. Maybe I can talk to Brains about a workaround while I’m grounded.”</p><p>Virgil was usually the one comforting his brothers. It felt different to be comforted. Especially by his head-in-the-clouds brother. “Thank you,” he said, pouring his guts into those two words.</p><p>John gave him a graceful salute. “F.A.B.”</p><p>And Virgil wasn’t quite so alone in this anymore.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>If the late Lord and Lady Creighton-Ward had been alive to see Penelope standing on a stepladder driving a nail into a wall, they would not have approved. Mum might have even fainted, milk-white and gasping from the sight of her daughter defying rank to hang a painting.</p><p>But if secrets were to be kept, a certain amount of self-sufficiency had to be cultivated.</p><p>Penelope <em>tap-tap-tapped</em> the nail into the wall. Easy. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and sighed. “Next,” she said to herself, bending down to grab the painting, “hang it straight.”</p><p><em>Victory</em> did <em>not</em> want to hang straight. Alan’s mangled face dared her to lose her temper as the frame tilted and wobbled on the end of the nail. Penelope muttered words that would have made her Mum blush as she readjusted the frame. She tipped the frame a little to the left, then up, then down and to the right just a smidge. She didn’t breathe, leaning back just far enough to make sure <em>Victory</em> was perfect.</p><p>Alan’s face admitted defeat then. Penelope smirked and climbed down the ladder.</p><p>“Wot are you doing in ‘ere, m’lady?” Parker asked. He lingered in the doorway, hand still on the knob as he surveyed the room.</p><p>Penelope did not startle. It was not in her nature. But she swore her soul almost slid out of her nose when she heard him speak. “I could ask the same of you, Parker,” Penelope said, schooling her voice to its usual calm serenity. “I thought I gave you time off this morning to spend with Lilian.”</p><p>“Much as I’d ‘ave liked to, there’s the matter of the Duchess.” Parker frowned. “I set up the map screen in the main lounge as you requested. Took me longer than I thought to do it, an’ that was more important than a little outing.”</p><p>“Oh, Parker, you know I feel terrible at having to cancel your plans. It’s been happening more than I like. I was trying to help,” Penelope said.</p><p>“International Rescue comes first, m’lady,” he reminded her, or, reminded them both. His drowsy-sharp eyes flickered down to his shiny shoes just a moment and she saw regret there. A very human reaction.</p><p>She couldn’t have asked for a better partner. She trusted Parker with her life. He never let her down, but sometimes she felt she let <em>him</em> down. Like with Lilian. Despite the bickering between her cook and manservant that rolled through the mansion at ungodly volumes, Penelope was sure there was affection between them. If only they could spend time outside the Creighton-Ward grounds... then maybe there would be some peace in the mansion.</p><p>“Well, Parker, you’re so right about the Duchess,” Penelope said, letting the wistfulness in her heart drip into her tone. All she had wanted for herself was a few minutes with Virgil’s painting. Just to hang it herself. “Better luck next time. Why don’t you show me the map screen? It’s about time we start our vigil over Deborah’s flight.”</p><p>Parker took the ladder from Penelope before she could carry it another step. His gaze flickered to the portrait hanging over the neglected fireplace and he froze. Brow furrowed, lower lip pursed in thought. “Care to tell me wot you were doing in ‘ere, m’lady? I can’t remember the last time we aired this room.”</p><p>If he had his own suspicions of whose likeness had been captured in the painting over the fireplace, he wasn’t about to voice them. So much the better. Penelope hadn’t wanted to confide in him. It wasn’t her way. This was <em>her</em> problem to wrestle with, and it was just the kind of problem that could hurt her if anyone knew about it while it was still new.</p><p>Ever since she had left the gallery with <em>Victory</em> in tow, she felt like a ramekin of creme brûlée that someone had tapped with a spoon. The delicate burnt caramel shattered beyond repair and now she had to face what was lurking underneath. Soft feelings. Sweet and decadent and completely forbidden. What was she to do? Act on it or take a blow torch to what was left?</p><p>Her parents would have handed her the torch. They would have made sure the flame burnt bright before thrusting it into her hands. But Penelope wanted to take a long hard look at what she’d been hiding from herself before thinking of flames and repairs.</p><p>Still, didn’t mean Parker needed to know yet.</p><p>“You could say I’ve spend entirely too long in galleries over the past few days,” Penelope said, considering how truthful she could go without giving him the whole of it. “I purchased a painting I liked.”</p><p>“Liked?” He echoed, looking at Alan’s face again. Puzzled.</p><p>“And I might turn this room into a private gallery for myself. It’s been dreary and forgotten for so long. It needs a purpose.” As one of the few north-facing rooms in the mansion, sunlight did not trickle in as much as she preferred when she was at home. The hexagon-shaped room used to serve as a sitting room many years ago but it was too small the entertain guests in. The walls were a cheerful mint. An ancient chair of some forgotten significance sat in the center. Penelope made a mental note to replace it with a textured chaise lounge. She would spend more time in here.</p><p>“As you say, m’lady. The room must not remain abandoned,” Parker said, reluctantly putting his curiously aside for her.</p><p>“Exactly, Parker,” Penelope said. And that was that.</p><p>The St. Christopher brooch Penelope had given the Duchess faithfully tracked the Duchess’s movements over the next few hours. First, through the air on Fireflash from England to New York, and then in Dandridge’s hired car... moving <em>out</em> of the city to an unplanned-for location. Leaving the city was never discussed. Dandridge’s driver should have delivered her straight to Gazelle Automations. Penelope didn’t know Dandridge well but Jeff trusted the man. So what was going on there?</p><p>Penelope burned her tongue as she drank black tea to keep her alert. Parker followed her steps like a shadow, artfully refilling her teacup when she stopped to track the blinking light moving further out into the country. Her call to Dandridge confirmed her suspicions; the Duchess was overdue and he hadn’t heard a word from his driver.</p><p>“She’s been kidnapped,” Penelope hissed into her half-empty cup. She warned Dandridge before hanging up on him to call Jeff.</p><p>Even knowing that International Rescue was on the case did not ease Penelope’s mind. The Duchess was her friend. <em>She</em> should have accompanied Deborah to New York (if only the stubborn woman had let her come along). And here she was, stuck in her house drinking tea while who knows what was happening to her friend and the priceless Braquasso that could save her from destitution.</p><p>“The boys won’t let us down,” Parker said, trying to sooth her while also plucking the teacup out of her hands. “Believe in them.”</p><p>“I do believe in them,” Penelope said. Her mouth turned down in the corners. Deborah’s movements had stopped at least twenty minutes ago. Wherever she was in the middle-of-nowhere New York, she wasn’t moving now. Was she hurt? Were the villains who kidnapped her with her? Penelope tried calling Jeff a few times but he would not answer. “Must be bad, if he’s not telling me what’s going on,” she said.</p><p>“Now, m’lady...”</p><p>Penelope snatched her teacup back. “How tiresome.”</p><p>Then Jeff called, finally. If she hadn’t had manners ingrained in her from the cradle, she would have snapped at him.</p><p>“Scott and Virgil have the rescue under control,” Jeff assured her. He told her that John traced the Duchess’s signal to an old house in the country and Scott and Virgil were there now, figuring out how to get her out of there.</p><p>“Did you tell her about the house exploding?” Gordon piped in somewhere behind Jeff’s shoulder.</p><p>Jeff gritted his teeth. “No I was <em>not</em> going to tell Penny about that, Son.”</p><p>Penelope’s mind leapt to at least a dozen grisly conclusions. “What do you mean ‘an explosion’? The brooch is still transmitting.”</p><p>“Scott thinks the Duchess is down in the cellar,” Jeff said, swatting Gordon away from the video screen. “Unless the building collapses before Virgil can get to her, she should be fine. Scott’s using the DOMO to hold up the wall right now while Virgil’s tunneling in with the Mole. As long as the wall holds...”</p><p>Penelope wanted to sag into a chair. Maybe even drop the teacup rattling in her hands. Oh why was it a struggle to remain calm? “Dandridge understands the situation when I last talked to him. We both surmised that this was a kidnapping. He’s expecting the thief to show up at his office and has planned accordingly.”</p><p>“So now we wait,” Jeff said. Simple, when he put it that way.</p><p>Penelope waited. She waited and thought of hundreds of scenarios where the building fell with the Duchess still inside of it. She pictured the flames swallowing wood with voracity. A dry sky overhead, no chance of miraculous rain. But then, wasn’t Virgil on the job? He was the one tunneling through layers of dirt and stonework to get to the Duchess. Steady, capable Virgil at the controls. Penelope’s heartbeat slowed down from its panicking thumping. Her teacup stopped making that death-rattle staccato and Parker sighed in relief.</p><p>The next time Jeff called, it was over. The DOMO had held the wall just long enough for Virgil to have broken through the cellar wall and get the Duchess out. As Gordon unhelpfully added, they’d all been worried for a few breathless moments Penelope hadn’t been privy too when the building collapsed and Virgil hadn’t called in. But the dirt-covered Mole emerged in good time with the Duchess bleeding but safe in the backseat.</p><p>“The boys are taking her to a hospital in the city—that way she’ll be right where she needs to be to fly home after she recovers,” Jeff said.</p><p>“Please provide me the name of the hospital when they check her in,” Penelope said.</p><p>“Thinking of flying in to see her?” Jeff asked.</p><p>Her mouth twitched up. “If your boys would be so kind as to give Parker and I a lift. I need to be there as fast as possible. The rescue may be wrapped up but the Braquasso is not.”</p><p>Jeff’s shoulders stiffened. “What’s happened?”</p><p>“I don’t know yet. I’ll contact you as soon as I’m off the line with Dandridge.”</p><p>“Fine, Penny. I’ll tell Scott and Virgil they have a detour before returning to the island.”</p><p>“If it’s not too much trouble...”</p><p>“Never for you.”</p><p>Penelope smiled. As soon the call ended, she reached out to the Dandridge and found a frazzled, tear-stained man on the other end of the video. “You were right about the kidnapping, Lady Penelope,” Dandridge said, running his hand through his hair. “And I thought I was prepared for it.”</p><p>Penelope listened with growing horror as Dandridge told her exactly what had happened when the kidnapper—Chandler—showed up at his office. Dandridge had his secretary call the police, yes, and he had a gun to threaten Chandler with if he had tried anything funny. Yet despite it all, the very worst happened. When Chandler suspected he was in trouble, he threw <em>Portrait of a Gazelle</em> at Dandridge.. and Dandridge accidentally fired and ruined the painting.</p><p>“Oh dear,” Penelope said, her stomach dropping. That priceless family heirloom ruined forever? What would they do? “We’ll have to tell the Duchess in person,” she told Dandridge. “We can do it together, if you like. I’ll be flying over to New York in a few hours. Parker will contact your secretary after we arrive.”</p><p>“Oh, thank you, Lady Penelope,” Dandridge said. He was a wreck, really. She didn’t trust him to tell the Duchess what happened without breaking down in front of the poor woman.</p><p>By the time she called Jeff back and relayed the conversation with Dandridge, Penelope was quite tired of playing telephone tag. “So you see, it’s vital that I reach the Duchess as soon as possible. She cannot find out about the Braquasso from another source first, like the press.”</p><p>“I understand, Penny.” Jeff looked somewhere offscreen and nodded. “John says the Duchess has just been checked in at NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital. Seems she hit her head pretty hard in that cellar. She’ll be out of commission for a few hours. They’re keeping her overnight. You have time.”</p><p>“Thank you, Jeff. Let me prepare for this impromptu trip and your boys,” she said.</p><p>Her own words to Jeff sunk in after ending the call. Scott and Virgil were coming <em>here</em>. As slow as Thunderbird 2 was compared to the other birds, it was still quite fast. They’d be here sooner than she needed.</p><p>“Shall I pack your overnight suitcase, m’lady?” Parker asked.</p><p>“Yes, please, Parker. I’ll need to change for the flight over.” She thought about what she should wear—not only for delivering the bad news to the Duchess, but also for Virgil.</p><p>Virgil would be here. Virgil Tracy. He should not be allowed to stumble upon his own painting. The old sitting room must be locked. She needed to keep him busy. In fact, she needed to thank both him and Scott for rushing to the Duchess’s aid. Surely they would have time for tea?</p><p>“Parker, tell Lilian that we will be having a grand tea,” Penelope said, chewing on her lip. She shook her head. “Never mind. I’ll tell her myself. I know exactly what I want us to have for tea.”</p><p>Parker turned pale under his flushed face. “M’lady, that’s not necessary. You’ll spook Cook if you go down to the kitchen.”</p><p>But Penelope was already crossing the room, her head swimming with the most exquisite sandwiches and tarts and guessing at what kind of expression Virgil might make when he took his first bite of everything. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Please forgive me my attempt at getting Parker’s accent right. I tried. </p><p>Also, now this fic includes Lilian/Parker. </p><p>“The Duchess Assignment”would have you believe that Deborah was flown back to a British hospital after her rescue (although it’s never said in the dialogue as far as I remember). I just find that hard to believe when the woman got clocked in the head with a fallen beam. So here I have her delivered to a NY hospital and I think it makes it easier for Dandridge to see her since, you know, he’s already in town lol.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Framed Like The Golden Masters</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Penelope’s grand tea for Virgil (and Scott) doesn’t go quite as she expects. Scott makes out with a Battenberg cake. Hands are touched. Misunderstandings happen. Virgil needs to come up with an idea for his next painting.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The kitchen was Lilian’s domain—perhaps the only place in the stately Creighton-Ward home that Penelope didn’t quite feel like she owned. The kitchen was sunny for being slightly below ground, with white tiles and terra cotta-painted walls. Lilian kept the kitchen clean and uncluttered, but she had her own vices. One of which was smoking while cooking. Penelope had never tasted ashes in her food but she had to admit that the sight of Lilian bending over a pot of stew with the cigarette dangling from her lip was unnerving.</p><p>“Lilian,” Penelope said, stepping inside. “I’m sorry to bother you.”</p><p>Lilian flinched at the sound of her mistress’s voice. The cigarette almost fell into the stew but she caught it just in time. “M’lady, wot are you doin’ down ‘ere? You should be upstairs.”</p><p>“We’ll be having a deviation in today’s menu,” Penelope said. She sniffed. A hearty stew. Who was that for? She never requested stew, but it smelled delicious, simmering with lamb and golden potatoes. “It’s a bit of an emergency so I thought I would tell you myself.”</p><p>Lilian stubbed her cigarette out in the glass ashtray next to the pot. “Don’t trust Nosy Parker to deliver your instructions? I wouldn’t either.”</p><p>Penelope sighed. “It’s not that at all. I’m having guests, Lilian. Important guests. And I want them to be in awe of your culinary talent.”</p><p>Lilian crossed her arms. Narrowed her eyes. Everything about this visit must have seemed suspicious. “Wot’ll it be then, m’lady?”</p><p>Penelope did not intimidate easily. Lilian and Parker were both like family to her. Lilian, for her part, looked the part of an unassuming cook. She wore a plain white apron over a blue gingham dress, a chef hat worn straight over her wispy bobbed hair. But there was a fierceness to her that made Penelope think twice about crossing the woman. “Two additional guests, Lilian. Expected to arrive in oh, say, three hours? I promised them a grand tea.”</p><p>Lilian muttered something Penelope didn’t catch over the bubbling of the stew. She grabbed a pen and pad and waited for Penelope to continue.</p><p>“To start with, we must have Russian Caravan to drink. The boys prefer coffee but I will not allow it this time,” Penelope said with a smile. Russian Caravan as a bold, smoky combination of oolong and black tea, perfect for Scott and Virgil who practically run on dark roast.</p><p>Lilian wrote this down, nodding. “You did say to keep that in stock, m’lady, after the last time the Tracy’s requested coffee.”</p><p>Penelope refused to take the bait. She would not tell Lilian that the Tracy’s were the ones expected. The woman might argue with her about the rest of the menu. “We’ll start with those lovely golden raisin scones of yours, followed by beetroot cured salmon with horseradish fraiche on rye. Bloody Mary shrimp sandwiches wouldn’t be remiss either.”</p><p>Lilian raised an eyebrow under her wispy bangs. “‘ungry guests, are they?”</p><p>“Ravenous,” Penelope replied mildly. “Jam tarts next. If I remember correctly, we have quite a storehouse of rhubarb and apricot jams. A Battenburg to finish.”</p><p>Lilian wrote it down, her lips scrunching as if she wished she hadn’t put out her cig for this. “All this in three hours? You’re asking for the moon, M’lady.”</p><p>“Parker will help you,” Penelope said, “after he’s finished packing. I’ll be gone overnight. A matter in New York needs wrapping up.”</p><p>But Lilian didn’t seem to care about where in the world Penelope would be. She only caught hold of the first part of her sentence. “Nosy?” she asked. “Nosy ‘elping me in the kitchen? That’ll be the day! You keep ‘im out of ‘ere, else I can’t promise you’ll get all you’re asking for.”</p><p>“I’m confident you’ll deliver,” Penelope said. “But if you wish me to make Parker disappear, I can certainly do that.”</p><p>Lilian eyed the stew. Steam rose from the pot, curling the ends of her hair. Her voice went soft, as if all the hot air escaped at once. “Tell ‘im ‘e can eat when ‘e likes. Just stay out of my way.”</p><p>Well this was going swimmingly. Penelope assured Lilian once more than she would keep Parker’s nose out of the kitchen, at least for a little while, but this concerned her. She wanted her cook and manservant to get along. No, not just get along. She wanted the bickering to stop. She wanted to see them holding hands, maybe, if they thought Penelope wasn’t looking.</p><p>“You can’t have everything you want when you want it, old girl,” she told herself as she headed back to her room. If she could be patient, maybe things would change. There was something to be said about waiting for water to boil.</p><p>Penelope used the time she had left to prepare for her flight over to New York. Parker had the packing handled, yes, but Penelope could not show up to the hospital wearing such casual clothing as her white slacks and powder blue cardigan. This was the Duchess of Royston. The poor woman needed to be respected.</p><p>Penelope pulled a new outfit from her closet and took it to her bathroom. She drew herself a bath—showers were just too dull and impersonal—and settled into the bubbles. The hot water pinkened her skin. Steam filled the room, smoking the mirrors, and the heavy scent of lavender settled over the room like a curtain being drawn. Penelope shut her eyes as she reclined.</p><p>When Penelope was a young girl, she had caught chicken pox like everyone else in school. The daily oatmeal baths had turned the water brown, reminding her of a well-steeped cup of tea. To this day, she still thought of this every time she bathed. Remembered the way she would dunk her head under the water, pretending she was a sugar cube about to dissolve.</p><p>The bath served its purpose: her muscles felt heavy and hot. She felt like she could be calm about this tea with the boys. Just like always. Jitters were strictly prohibited. The fluttering in her chest, smothered by soap bubbles and steam. By the time she climbed out the bath, she was herself again.</p><p>The salmon-pink dress and traveling coat suited her well. Her black gloves and floppy black hat would complete the look, though she didn’t need to wear those until she boarded Thunderbird 2. She checked her makeup in the mirror—still perfect—and styled her hair into a neat chignon. If Penelope spent an extended amount of time in front of her full-length mirror, checking for wrinkles (there were none) or smudging (her face was pristine), she would never admit to it.</p><p>The Thunderbirds arrived with all the fanfare that two powerful engines could muster. The sound of the retros firing could have woken the dead. Whenever the birds had needed to land on the Creighton-Ward grounds, they simply used the stretch of manicured lawns stretching out behind the stately home. Each landing damaged the grass, but Penelope was always vigilant in fixing those burns; she’d rather have them land on her property where privacy was assured rather than the boys having to travel some distance to get here and risk being spotted in an non-emergency situation.</p><p>Penelope calmly and slowly made her way to the main lounge. She would not answer the door herself. She definitely would not linger in the front hall on some pretense, just to see them arrive a moment earlier. Decorum was everything. So she found the table Parker must have set up during her bath and took her seat there. Three place settings. Water pitcher and glasses already already filled. Penelope smoothed her skirt and drew her shoulders back.</p><p>The doors to the main lounge opened. Parker stood in his finest suit and coughed into his fist. “M’lady, Mr. Scott and Virgil Tracy ‘ave arrived.”</p><p>Penelope did not suck in her breath. <em>She did not.</em></p><p>Scott stalked into the room first. He was usually first, to the surprise of no one who knew him. As the eldest Tracy, he was the human shield, instinctively putting his body between his brothers and the unknown—or even the reasonably well-known like Penelope and her home. Scott’s blue eyes roved around the room and settled on Penelope. “Good to see you again, Lady Penelope,” he said with a little nod of his head.</p><p>“A pleasure, as always,” Penelope said, pleased with the steadiness of her voice. The bath had soothed her quite well. “Please, have a seat. I would not have you flying on empty stomachs after you came all this way.”</p><p>Scott perked up. He claimed a chair immediately and picked up his fork as if the food would soon follow.</p><p>“You don’t have to, Lady Penelope. We ate already,” Virgil said from the doorway. He was looking at Scott with a mixture of sternness and amusement.</p><p>Penelope was looking at <em>Virgil</em>. While he was distracted. It could be said, objectively, that Virgil Tracy did not get the luck of the genes that had made his brothers strikingly handsome. He was built with more bulk; Penelope didn’t have firsthand experience to know how much of Virgil was muscle, but he looked soft, at times. He couldn’t be all iron and steel like his bird. He had the Tracy eyebrows, thick and expressive, and rich, brown hair smoothed back from his forehead (it looked as if he didn’t need gel to keep it there, unlike Alan and Scott). Penelope knew Virgil wasn’t handsome, but she liked his face. Very much. It was a steady, dependable face.</p><p>Scott gripped the fork tighter. “But it’s been hours since we ate,” he mumbled, words mashed together.</p><p>“I must insist,” Penelope said. She sat up straighter. “Need I remind you that the rescue you just performed was for a personal friend of mine. It’s my pleasure to thank you for saving her.”</p><p>Virgil sighed, though it sounded more like relief than exasperation. He sat down at the table on Penelope’s left. As she had hoped. His chair was much closer than Scott’s, who sat across from her.</p><p>“Parker, please bring the tea and scones,” Penelope asked.</p><p>“Right away, m’lady,” Parker said, leaving the room.</p><p>The boys exchanged a look at the word “tea.” She had not offered to provide coffee. They were too polite to ask for it.</p><p>“I believe you’ll enjoy what I’ve picked out for us,” Penelope assured them. She had thought long and hard about this. Too long perhaps. “You boys don’t look as if you had emerged from the burning building.” She gave a delicate sniff. No, they smelled like fresh soap. The kind that was supposed to bring to mind crisp, wind-blown mountains.</p><p>Scott chuckled. “It would hardly be polite to show up as we were.”</p><p>“Fragrant, I think you would call it,” Virgil said, his lips curled at the corners.</p><p>Scott shrugged. “More me than you, maybe. I was in the DOMO, holding up the wall to keep it from collapsing on the Duchess and Virgil. The heat coming from that building was fantastic. I was a wet rag by the end of it.”</p><p>“And I was literally a mole,” Virgil says. “The amount of dirt and dust blowing around in the cellar was incredible. I’d only climbed out of the Mole for a minute or two to get the Duchess, but it was enough. I was covered. Not sure if I got it all off.”</p><p>His words invited her to study him again. Clearly both boys had cleaned up. Thunderbird 2 had a shower installed. At some point, they’d used it. Still, it must have been hastily done. Penelope’s sharp gaze swept over Virgil and found dirt smeared like a brushstroke behind his ear. She only saw it because he had turned his head to address his brother.</p><p>The ghosts of Lord and Lady Creighton-Ward <em>screeched</em> at her as she dunked her cloth napkin in her water glass. She hadn’t planned to drink from the glass anyway. It was tea she wanted. Always tea. “Hold still,” she said, raising the wet napkin. “I think I found something.”</p><p>Scott raised his eyebrows. Virgil froze.</p><p>Penelope led with the wet napkin, but if she didn’t grab hold of him, she’d topple out of her chair. It only made sense to touch his face. Clearly, that was the only option. Her left hand moved on its own, settling on his jaw like a bird perching. She felt his skin. Smooth skin, freshly shaved. Her fingers tingled but she hung on. Turned his head slightly so she could get that the dirt easier.</p><p>“Didn’t Dad teach you to wash behind your ears, Virg?” Scott teased.</p><p>Virgil blew out his breath. It brushed Penny’s left hand, raising the fine hairs on her arm. “We can’t all be perfect, can we?”</p><p>“Ouch,” Scott replied, sounding not at all wounded by the retort.</p><p>The dirt came away easily on the wet napkin. But she had to make sure she got it all. She dropped the napkin on the table and rubbed her thumb over the soft, damp skin behind his ear. She felt him shiver. Penelope bit her lip and retreated back to her own space, firmly in her own chair. Her fingers felt like they had just touched a screaming tea kettle. “All better,” she found herself saying, as if trying to jam a giant period at the end of that moment.</p><p>Virgil’s throat bobbed. His eyes were a little wide, his mouth slightly open. Then his jaw tightened and he settled in his seat. “Thank you,” he said.</p><p>She nodded. Smoothed her skirt.</p><p>Parker wheeled the tea in on a cloth-covered cart. Penelope settled into the comforting motions of afternoon tea. The gentle glug-glugging of a teacup being filled with hot liquid. The clinks and clanks of silverware on gold-leafed plates. Parker had brought out more than just the scones. Lilian had been incredibly efficient in the hours provided. The golden raisin scones with clotted cream were, of course, still warmly nestled in their folded basket. But the sandwiches were present: the Bloody Mary shrimp sandwiches had been brushed with avocado butter, a fine touch from Lilian, and the beetroot cured salmon looked like rubies sliced and spread on the open-faced rye bread.</p><p>The food brought a palpable excitement to the table, just as she expected when she’d planned it. Penelope raised her teacup of Russian Caravan to her lips and blew on it. “What do you boys think of the tea?”</p><p>Virgil closed his eyes when he took his first sip. He gave a little sigh. “It’s almost like coffee,” he said. High praise.</p><p>Penelope smiled into her cup.</p><p>“Sure is swell,” Scott added, adding a splash of milk to his tea. His eyes twinkled as he surveyed the array of sandwiches. “I didn’t know tea could have such range. We don’t branch out much on the island. Just plain old coffee and whatever Tin-Tin picks up in her travels.”</p><p>“That’s understandable,” Penelope said, gesturing to the plate of scones. Virgil beat Scott to it, only for him to offer the plate to her first, rather than Scott. She selected a scone studded with golden raisins and thanked him before continuing. “You need fuel, and you need it fast when lives are on the line. A properly brewed cup of tea takes patience. It should never be rushed.”</p><p>Scott snatched three scones, ignoring Virgil’s glare, and took a generous clump of clotted cream from the glass serving dish.</p><p>Penelope looked at Virgil while siping her tea, watching as his knife bit into the scone with precision.</p><p>A gentle silence stole over the table. Jam and clotted cream made the rounds. She could have lived in this moment for years. Jeff Tracy had taught his sons well. They certainly had polished manners for Americans, even with Scott’s appetite pushing the boundaries. The sandwiches transferred from serving dishes to plates, from hands to mouths. Parker refilled cups, sensitive as ever to anyone running low.</p><p>“Jeff failed to mention the details, so I’m unsure of what I’ll be walking into at the hospital,” Penelope said, knowing that this tea couldn’t last forever. She still had a mission to complete, a friend to break bad news to.</p><p>“From what the Duchess told me, she had been tied to a chair and tried to get out of her bindings,” Virgil said, frowning.</p><p>“<em>She’s</em> the one who blew up the house,” Scott said between mouthfuls of the Blood Mary shrimp sandwich. “Ended up busting a generator. With all the gas pumped into the house, it was no wonder it went up in flames after that.”</p><p>Penelope set down her teacup. Her hand resting on the table crushed her napkin. Deborah had a habit of tumbling into the trouble, but this? This had been a close one. If Virgil hadn’t reached her in time, if Scott hadn’t held the wall as long as he did...</p><p>Virgil touched the back of her hand. Had she not been trained for stillness, she would have knocked over her teacup. His palm was warm and rough. “She’s okay. I looked her over myself before we flew her to the hospital. She’d taken a beam to her head from the fallen ceiling, but it was a graze, really. Nothing a doctor can’t patch up.”</p><p>Penelope’s eyes flickered from his hand, already retreating, to the concern tightening the lines around his mouth. He’d seen her worry. She hadn’t been able to hide that. “Thank you,” she told him, her voice sounding more like a whisper. “I hate to think what would have happened if you hadn’t been there.”</p><p>“It’s my job,” Virgil said, as if tunneling through the dark, dank earth towards a raging inferno was as normal as a cashier ringing up purchases.</p><p>Penelope’s hand twitched. She should really let go of the napkin now. She might need her hand for something else, like eating.</p><p>Virgil looked uncertain. His hands rested on his lap. But they slid forward along his thighs, heading for her. Would he touch her hand again? </p><p>Penelope was losing control. She swallowed her words, none of them making sense in her head anyway, and watched Virgil’s hands come closer.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> Would he keep his hand on hers this time? Would she let him? </span></p><p>Then, Scott. Oh Scott. He must have grabbed the last scone and sliced it open to spread on the last of the clotted cream. The sound of the knife scraping against the scone shattered whatever bubble that had wrapped around she and Virgil.</p><p>Scott shoved half of the scone in his mouth, his eyes darting between the two of them. “Delicious,” Scott said around a mouthful of scone.</p><p>Penelope dropped her gaze from Virgil and drew in a shaky breath.</p><p>“Dessert is ready, m’lady,” Parker announced, rolling in a second cart with jam tarts and the Battenberg cake already sliced to show off the checkerboard pattern on the inside.</p><p>Scott made a noise as Parker handed him a plate with his slice of cake. Instead of inhaling it like the sandwiches, he studied the cake, brow furrowed and muttering too low to hear.</p><p>Penelope took her slice, grateful for Parker’s interruption. The backs of her knees were sweaty. She wished she had a collar to unbutton. “We can’t have a proper tea without dessert,” she said, forcing the words out like a good hostess.</p><p>Virgil nudged his chair closer.</p><p>Penelope couldn’t move. She was glued to her seat with sweat.</p><p>“Lady Penelope,” he said, lowering his voice while Scott was preoccupied. “This was incredibly kind of you.”</p><p>Penelope hadn’t planned for this part. She had hoped, in a vague sort of way, that he’d suspect that this was no ordinary tea. She cared about what she fed him because, well, because she cared about <em>him</em>.</p><p>Virgil cupped his hand over his mouth. Scott still didn’t look up from his plate. “You shouldn’t have gone through so much trouble for Scott.”</p><p><em>For Scott?</em> Penelope’s face went blank. Shut down. Her lungs might have stopped working.</p><p>“You know about his, uh, midnight forays in the kitchen,” Virgil continued, oblivious to the dead-eyed stare she was probably giving him in return. “It works for him. The stress-baking. But he’s never tried to make any of these kinds of desserts. I mean, we don’t have any cookbooks with...”</p><p>“Battenbergs?” she said woodenly.</p><p>“Battenbergs. Right. No Battenbergs in them. He’s sure to ask for more cookbooks now. This’ll keep him inspired.” He smiled. “You’re an inspiration.”</p><p>The compliment revived her, somewhat. Her mouth mimicked his smile. “My only intention was to thank you both, dear boy.”</p><p>Virgil’s smile faded into confusion. His eyes swept over her, looking perhaps for whatever she wasn’t saying.</p><p>Penelope looked away. Just in time to see Scott shove another slice of Battenberg in his mouth, licking a fleck of marzipan off his lips.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Nothing could have prepared Virgil for that stopover at the Creighton-Ward mansion. Even if Jeff Tracy himself had briefed Virgil on how the tea would have played out, Virgil wouldn’t have believed him. <em>I should have spent five more minutes in Thunderbird 2’s shower,</em> he thought, gripping the wheel as he directed his bird through a cloud. Maybe he wouldn’t have missed a spot. But then, he’d been too much in a rush. He’d even showered cold, unwilling to wait for the water to heat, because that would mean keeping Penelope waiting, which he could not possibly do.</p><p>So Virgil discovered something new about himself: his ears were sensitive. And the skin in that general vicinity. That whole area was apparently flammable. Any touch that wasn’t his could set him off.</p><p>How could he have known before? He and his brothers were basically heroic hermits. Whatever fooling around he and his brothers had done at university had become dust-covered memories of another time. Surely his father had scrubbed him behind his ears when he was a kid. Scott, too, always cleaning up after them. But when Penelope took a cool, wet washcloth to the skin behind his ear, it was like she’d hit a live wire. Her fingers on his jaw, her thumb rubbing his damp skin... heat had pooled in his belly so fast he’d hardly had time to consider crossing his legs. Thank god for the tablecloth. Yes, her thumb had done him the most damage. He’s not sure how he kept the flush out of his cheeks. He’d never been much of a blusher, but for once he was grateful for it.</p><p>Even now, as he maintained his course for New York with Penelope and Parker strapped into the passenger seats behind him, the memory of that washcloth and thumb brought tingling heat back. His knuckles bloomed white on the wheel.</p><p>“This is Thunderbird 1 to Thunderbird 2,” Scott said, coming through on their private frequency. “About to reach the island. Any trouble, Virgil?”</p><p>“No trouble, Scott. Estimated time of arrival is one hour,” Virgil croaked back.</p><p>“F.A.B.” Scott signed off.</p><p>The thing was, Virgil had noticed that Lady Penelope was not a toucher. The energy she usually gave off served as a barrier between her and any kind of shoulder-squeeze, hug, or a mere handshake a friend might want to give. She seemed to only touch people when she had to. Virgil didn’t know why. Maybe it had to do with her upbringing. He’d never met her parents—they had passed away before Jeff had recruited her to International Rescue—so he had nothing to go on there. Moreover, it really wasn’t any of his business. It hadn’t stopped him from forgetting to breathe when she entered a room.</p><p>The wet napkin debacle had, therefore, been something he’d never planned for. Ever. In his life. And it had made him want to touch her back. Because Virgil Tracy was, in fact, a toucher. It came with his job.</p><p>For the pilot of a carrier bird, he found himself more often than not plunging into the action using the machinery he lugged from danger zone to danger zone. He wouldn’t have had it any other way. This also meant direct contact with victims. He had to strap harnesses on them to airlift them out of a tight spot, or yank them by the collar to get them on their feet when running became the difference between life or death. He’d had victims cling to him, arms and legs wrapped tight around his body like vices. Snot and tears ruined smeared on his uniform.</p><p>He’d learned through practice how to stroke someone’s back to ebb their sobbing, how to hold their hands or pat their cheeks or tousle their hair to encourage trust. Sometimes touch worked better than words. Sometimes words were just useless.</p><p>“I’ll be ‘appy to stretch my legs after this,” Parker said from his seat. “Thunderbird 1 would ‘ave been faster.”</p><p>“Ah, but Thunderbird 1 wasn’t designed for passengers,” Penelope reminded him. “You know very well you wouldn’t find a bunk in Scott’s bird, or anything like the facilities you’d expect for a long flight.”</p><p>“Cor, I’d prefer the bunk right about now,” Parker said. He sounded sleepy. The man couldn’t catch a nap while sitting straight up.</p><p>Virgil scanned the flashing controls in front of him. They’d had quite a lot of turbulence on the flight, which was why he’d insisted on them staying in their seats. “Roll your ankles,” he suggested, flicking a switch. “It helps, I promise.”</p><p>His eyes stayed on the sky stretching out before him. The NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital had a helipad on the roof so he wouldn’t need to find alternative means of getting them to the Duchess. He adjusted his course, checking the monitors, and found that he’d soon be able to let Penelope and Parker out of their seats.</p><p>Something else still bothered him about the tea. At the very end, Virgil had managed to thank Penelope. What a perfect opportunity that had been, with Scott oblivious to everything but the secrets he tried to pry out of a non-sentient Battenberg.</p><p>He knew this tea had been special. Penelope liked to impress, but he’d never seen or tasted food so extravagant. The salmon looked as if it had been plucked from a jewel box. He’d never imagined you could <em>eat</em> a Bloody Mary, and that shrimp was the logical choice for the filling. Russian Caravan had been the closest he’d ever come to enjoying tea, and it was all thanks to Penelope’s extensive knowledge that a cup of it ever reached his lips.</p><p>Still, why had she gone through so much trouble? The only conclusion he could draw was that it was for Scott. Scott had been stress-baking for about a year now. Everyone knew it. Penelope and Parker certainly did, even if they’d never witnessed it themselves. Scott himself was always so focused on everyone else, being the big brother, that he probably never considered expanding his options beyond the cookbooks Kyrano and Grandma curated at home. So Virgil thought it was obvious: Penelope served a British classic to widen Scott’s horizons, while also thanking them for helping the Duchess.</p><p>But then Penelope had shut down right in the middle of his thank you. Her gaze shuttered. That mask of politeness she wore all too often aimed at <em>him</em>.</p><p>Her hand had looked so pale against the tablecloth.</p><p>Panic triggered movement; without thinking, he’d almost sent his hands across the space between them to melt that mask off her face.</p><p>Why had he stopped? Because Scott emerged from his cake stupor and ate his quarry. Penelope had looked away, and that was that.</p><p>“Manhattan below,” Virgil announced, just as the buildings popped up beneath the clouds. “You can unfasten your seatbelts. We still have another fifteen minutes until landing.”</p><p>The sound of belts unbuckling reached his ears above the hum of his bird. Parker groaned and stretched; Virgil caught him in his periphery.</p><p>Virgil swallowed thickly. He had nothing to fill the silence on his bird with. No idle conversation. Nothing but the strange tension that had lingered all flight long.</p><p>But then Penelope stood beside his chair. He stole a glance at her. At some point during the flight, She had donned black elbow-length gloves and a floppy hat trimmed with salmon-pink ribbon that matched with the rest of her outfit. She looked every inch like royalty. Perfection in pink.</p><p>“So the Duchess.” Virgil kept the wheel steady. “She’ll be happy to see you.”</p><p>“Somehow I doubt that.” Penelope looked grim. “Deborah doesn’t know her painting has been ruined.”</p><p>Virgil’s mouth fell open. “What?”</p><p>“Jeff didn’t tell you? Come to think of it, I didn’t either.” Penelope leaned against his chair. “I suppose all the excitement distracted me from the task now at hand.”</p><p>Virgil felt ill. The Braquasso ruined, after everything they’d been through to ensure the Duchess and the painting’s safety?</p><p>“Dandridge shot the painting by accident,” Penelope said, as if reciting lines from a play. “It happened when the kidnapper tried to make a run for it. He threw the painting at Dandridge just as Dandridge pulled the trigger.”</p><p>“That’s terrible,” Virgil said. He thought of his own paintings meeting the same fate and blanched. No matter how critical he was of his own work, that kind of destruction would break his heart. “How are you going to tell her?”</p><p>“Good question,” Parker piped in from behind them. “I wouldn’t want to be in m’lady’s shoes.”</p><p>“Thank you, Parker,” Penelope said dryly. “She’s an excitable woman. I’ll have to wait for the right time. At the very least, I’ve prevented Dandridge from telling her first. The poor man had looked as if he’d snapped at the seams.”</p><p>“A tragedy, if there ever was one,” Parker added.</p><p>Virgil was pretty sure Parker didn’t care much.</p><p>Penelope didn’t tuck back the loose strand of honey-colored hair spilling from her chignon. She was stone next to him, her eyes narrowed in concentration. New York was right in front of her but she wasn’t there. Her mind had to already be in that hospital room, plotting out her best course of action.</p><p>Virgil had a hard time breathing next to her. Not new. Ten minutes now, and he’d be landing. Leaving her here.</p><p>“What will you do, when you return to the island?” Penelope asked.</p><p>Virgil’s eyes flicked up to her. Wait. She was asking about him now? “Pass the time until the next rescue.”</p><p>“Piano?”</p><p>He shrugged. The buildings were getting closer. “Alan and Gordon found some of Mom’s old sheet music. I’m supposed to be learning those to play for the family but then, Tin-Tin has her heart set on me learning The Wasps’ “Blues Pacifica” by ear. It’s the newest craze on the radio.”</p><p>“I’ve heard it,” she said.</p><p>Not impressed, then. That wasn’t quite like her. Penelope enjoyed jazz as much as the rest of them.</p><p>Then, in a curious voice, she asked, “What about your art?”</p><p>Virgil’s pulse jumped in his throat. The rescue had chased Reginald’s last call from his mind, but it came back to him now. He had to produce another painting, fast. He’d never been under this kind of pressure, even when one of the boys commissioned him. John had seemed to believe he’d meet Reginald’s vaguely threatening deadline, but he had no idea <em>what</em> he should paint. “I’m all out of inspiration,” he replied, eyes on the sky once more.</p><p>Warmth crept into Penelope’s voice. “How could that possibly be, when you live in paradise?”</p><p>“Believe it or not, there <em>is</em> such thing is seeing one too many ocean sunsets,” Virgil said.</p><p>“I don’t believe it.”</p><p>Virgil chuckled. The tension between them eased. He felt the muscles in his shoulders loosen. “I’ve painted enough sunsets to light up a room.”</p><p>“Have you ever tried dawn?”</p><p>“Dawn?”</p><p>Penelope’s mask dropped suddenly and without warning. Beneath it, her face glowed. “It’s my favorite time of day. Because it’s a beginning. The world is still half-asleep, but that rosy glow emerges on the horizon without fail, every day. It’s like... watching a present open itself right before your eyes. Another day, another opportunity.”</p><p>Dawn was a mystery to him, even though International Rescue had him up at all hours. Sometimes he flew right into that rosy-new day without paying it any mind, bone-tired and running on empty. “I never thought of it like that,” Virgil said. He couldn’t look away from her face.</p><p>She caught him looking. Her smile, hovering like a ghost while she spoke, deepened. “The hospital,” she said, pointing. “We’re here.”</p><p>Virgil drew in a sharp breath and pulled up on the wheel. The last thing they needed was a crash landing on the helipad.</p><p>With plenty of room on the helipad, Virgil delivered Penelope Creighton-Ward and Parker to their destination, as promised. His role in the Duchess’s rescue was now complete.</p><p>“You sure you won’t come say ‘ello to the Duchess?” Parker asked, hefting Penelope’s overnight suitcase. His face turned red from the weight of it.</p><p>Virgil grimaced. “Believe me, she saw enough of me.” <em>Felt</em> enough of him too; the Duchess hadn’t been shy when he’d helped her into the backseat of the Mole. “We have our identities to protect.”</p><p>Your loss,” Parker said.</p><p>Penelope adjusted her hat once more and nodded. “Until next time, dear boy.” Whenever that would be.</p><p>With some regret, he stayed put in his chair. The sound of her heels rattled around in his heart as she walked away.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I hope enjoyed that little nod to Stingray (“Blues Pacifica” by The Wasps from ep “Tune of Danger”). </p><p>Hands. Where are my hands people? I had so much fun with this chapter ;)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Truth that Appears</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which Virgil is on a rescue mission that requires some sensitivity. Penelope ends up confiding in her old friend about her feelings for Virgil. Also, there’s a kiss—though perhaps not the one you’re expecting.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Virgil returned to the island just long enough to dump his dirt-and-ash-covered uniform from the Duchess’s rescue into the laundry before John called with another emergency. He splashed water on his face and went straight back to Thunderbird 2 for takeoff. This time Alan came with him, jiggling his leg with impatience.</p><p>“How many kids do you think are on that bus?” Alan asked.</p><p>“Fifteen boys,” John said, his voice patching in loud and clear from Thunderbird 5. “Not including the coach and assistant coach. They’re trying to keep the kids calm without tipping the weight. The bus could go over any minute.”</p><p>“ETA five minutes,” Scott said from Thunderbird 1. “I know what to do. Virgil, you and Alan just concentrate on evacuating the bus when you get there.”</p><p>“F.A.B.,” Virgil and Alan said.</p><p>Penelope’s Russian Caravan tea flowed through Virgil’s veins, keeping him alert and mentally equipped for whatever he’d find when he reached the bus. Unlike Alan, he sat still in his chair, deftly steering Thunderbird 2 over the San Juan mountains.</p><p>Between Jeff and John, he understood that a school bus carrying a little league baseball team had been driving overnight through Colorado to reach their away game. The bus had taken the Million Dollar Highway, notorious for numerous switchbacks and sections of road without guardrails. The assistant coach had been behind the wheel when an animal darted in front of the bus; she had swerved to miss the creature and sent the bus careening over one of those guardrail-less sections. What could have easily been a tragedy turned into a temporary miracle—the bus landed on a ledge below the road and stopped just short of going over.</p><p>Virgil’s mouth pressed into a grim line as he approached the location of the bus. Despite how dark it was outside, he could see it from the windows, bright yellow against the coppery rocks. Moonlight washed over the highway, making everting glow. But morning was due in just a few short hours and this bus wouldn’t make it to see a sunrise.</p><p>“I’m moving in,” Scott said. “Virgil, make sure you’re high enough not to disturb the bus with your jets.”</p><p>“F.A.B.,” Virgil replied.</p><p>Alan unbuckled himself and stood behind Virgil, his breath on the back of Virgil’s neck. “Just like with Eddie,” he muttered.</p><p>“It worked then, it’ll work now,” Virgil said, bringing his brother back to Earth. Months passed since they’d had to rescue Eddie, but Alan still couldn’t speak of the man without letting his resentment for Tin-Tin’s ex show. “Cool off, will you? He’s not here.”</p><p>Alan rolled his eyes. “I’m fine, Virg. We’ve got to get the ladder down.”</p><p>“Get in position,” Virgil said.</p><p>Below them, Scott slowly and carefully nudged Thunderbird 1’s nose under the front of the bus that hung off the side of the ledge. The bus creaked and shuddered, but stayed put. Thunderbird 1 held the weight—for now—but they had to move fast.</p><p>Virgil flicked a switch, sending the winch ladder down with Alan holding on to one of the lower rungs. “Easy does it,” he whispered, sweat beading on his brow as he watched the monitors. The electromagnets activated when the ladder reached the ledge, securing the ladder in place. Alan hopped off and shouted directions to the team trapped inside.</p><p>One by one, the kids left the bus. They were in elementary school, still small with gangly limbs and uniforms too large for their shoulders. Scott kept his bird steady. Virgil watched the controls. Alan occasionally grabbed a boy by the scruff of his shirt to get him off the bus’s steps faster.</p><p>Virgil counted; Alan had gotten eleven of the kids off the bus. Four more kids to go, plus the two coaches. “Is everyone holding onto their rungs tight? I’ve got to move them,” he said.</p><p>“Secure for ascent,” Alan said.</p><p>Demagnetizing the ladder, Virgil lifted his bird. Eleven kids clung to the ladder, eyes closed against the wind scratching at them. It only took a few minutes to bring the ladder up to the road and secure it so that the boys could climb off. He was thankful they moved fast, some of them jumping down from their rungs to land sneakers-first on the paved road. “Everyone’s off,” Virgil reported. “Sending the ladder back down to the ledge for the others. Are they ready, Alan?”</p><p>“Not exactly,” Alan admitted.</p><p>“Hurry,” Scott said, the strain in his voice unmistakable. “The bus is leaning heavier now. We’ve got to work faster.”</p><p>“I’m trying,” Alan said. “They’re scared. They’re <em>too</em> scared.”</p><p>“What’s going on, Alan?” Virgil asked. He knew that of all the Tracys, his brother didn’t exactly give off a sense of calm in these situations. If that was the kind of rescuer the remaining victims needed to get them moving, Alan probably couldn’t cut it.</p><p>“The four boys in the back won’t budge. They’ve huddled together on the backseat, shaking. Won’t respond to me or the coaches,” Alan said.</p><p>“Trade places with me,” Virgil said, already rising from his chair. His pulse pounded in ears as he left his bird, knowing it would stay put long enough for Alan to take control. He went to the equipment deck and climbed down the ladder as fast as his legs would move.</p><p>Alan squeezed his shoulder and scrambled up the ladder.</p><p>Virgil jogged over to the bus.</p><p>“We can’t move until the kids do,” the coach told him, sharing the driver’s seat with the assistant coach.</p><p>Virgil nodded. If the coaches left first, the bus would topple over from the change in weight distribution. He climbed the steps into the bus, aware of how the vehicle creaked under his weight. Pulling the flashlight from his belt, Virgil shone a light on the boys in the back of the bus. They were, as Alan said, huddled together. The one in the middle shivered like he’d taken a dip in the freezing ocean.</p><p>“My name’s Virgil. I’m going to get you out of here,” Virgil said, tempering his voice.He wouldn’t let them pick up on his own fears of walking onto this precarious bus. “But I’m going to need your help. What are your names?”</p><p>Three of the boys responded right away. Matt, Brogan, Sam. The shivering boy opened his mouth but his teeth chattered.</p><p>“He’s Drew,” Sam said, wrapping an arm around the smaller boy. “He’s got glass in his face. It looks real bad.”</p><p>Virgil swept the flashlight over the back of the bus, finding the window that had shattered upon landing on the ledge. Drew must have been sitting next to the window then, to catch the blast of glittering shards. Careful to avoid blinding the boys with the light, he shone it just below Drew’s chin. The boy did indeed have a few generous chunks of glass spearing his cheek and chin. Virgil knew that there were probably numerous shards he couldn’t see in the boy’s skin, all of them needing to be extracted under a magnifying glass.</p><p>“Drew,” Virgil said softly. “<em>Drew</em>, look at me.”</p><p>Slowly, as if pulling himself from a deep well, the boy lifted his head. His eyes were red, lips white.</p><p>“Drew, I’m going to need you to be brave. What position do you play?”</p><p>“P-Pitcher,” Drew mumbled, then winced when talking had pulled on the shards.</p><p>Virgil inched into the aisle, standing next to the driver’s seat. He glanced at the coaches and said, “When they move, I need you right behind them. No hesitating.”</p><p>“All right,” the coach said. The assistant, holding onto the wheel as if it would make a different, gave a sharp nod.</p><p>Turning back to the boys, Virgil smiled at Drew. Held his hand out. “Pitcher, huh? So you already know how this is going to work. Drew, I want you to pretend that you’re the ball. You’ve pitched down the middle plenty of times, haven’t you? Right into the catcher’s mitt. I want you to pretend you’re the ball this time. I’m the mitt. Nothing else matters. It’s just you and me. Focus on me. I’ll catch you.”</p><p>“I can’t walk,” Drew said. He shifted in his seat, showing Virgil a set of trembling legs. Unhurt but affected by the shock.</p><p>“You <em>can</em>,” Virgil said. “Just long enough to reach me. You can do this. Your brothers are by your side. They won’t let you stumble.”</p><p>He caught his slip up too late to correct himself mid-sentence. He’d meant to say “friends.” They weren’t brothers. Of course not. But part of him had been here before—in different circumstances, yes, but how many times had he played this role for his little brothers when they found trouble?</p><p>Memories flashed like starlight behind his eyes: Alan red-faced and lying like a lump on the ground, bellowing over his scraped knees, until Virgil hefted him into his arms; Gordon scaring himself after holding his breath for too long in the pool and gulping air with his cheek pressed against Virgil’s shoulder; Sitting side by side with a deathly silent John after Alan had wrecked John’s first telescope. Even Scott needed comfort sometimes—a kind word, a hand on his shoulder. They needed each other, always.</p><p>Drew slowly stood up. His legs shook badly, knees threatening to buckle. Sam and Matt grabbed him under the elbows while Brogan brought up the rear. The aisle was too narrow for them to walk side by side, but they all managed to keep their hands on Drew, murmuring encouragement.</p><p>It felt like hours, having to watch and keep his expression steady as the bus creaked and groaned around him, as Scott urged Virgil to move it and Alan cut in, babbling about the ambulance on its way. But then Drew was close enough to grab. Virgil snatched the boy up into his arms. Drew couldn’t rest his head against Virgil because of the glass, but he clung in other ways, wrapping his legs around Virgil’s middle and nearly choking him with his arms around Virgil’s neck. It was the best feeling in the world.</p><p>“Come on, follow me, all of you,” he yelled, heading for the steps.</p><p>Matt, Sam, and Brogan leapt off the steps, landing on the dirt ledge. The coaches followed right behind Virgil. When they were all on the ground, he said, “Now, Scott!”</p><p>Scott pulled Thunderbird 1 away from the bus.</p><p>With Drew crying in his arms, surrounded the remaining baseball team, Virgil watched the bus give one final groan before succumbing to gravity. It tumbled down over the ledge and exploded at the bottom in the same way most of their rescues of this sort ended up. Thankfully, they’d gotten everyone out in time. Virgil rubbed Drew’s back and sighed.</p><p>Excited by their own last-minute bravery, the boys had no issue with climbing up the ladder and hanging on for their lift back up to the road. The coaches, too, gladly grabbed hold. Drew’s shock would have prevented him from holding on, so Virgil set him on the lowest rung and stepped on the rung behind him, covering him with his body to hold him in place. Brogan crowed as the ladder lifted off the ground. The rest of the team waiting on the road cheered.</p><p>Even after landing on solid ground, Drew clung to Virgil. He said nothing to the boy, only kept rubbing his back. “Alan, can you bring the first aid kit?”</p><p>“F.A.B., Virgil,” Alan said. “ETA twenty minutes for the ambulance.”</p><p>“We’ll do what we can until then,” Virgil murmured.</p><p>Somehow, he’d gotten Drew to let go long enough to plop the boy on a nearby boulder. The night sky was brightening, casting a soft blue glow on the land. Virgil didn’t need his flashlight to see the bigger shards, but he wouldn’t pluck them out knowing that the paramedics in the ambulance wouldn’t thank him for it, as close as they were to the scene.</p><p>“You did good,” Virgil said, gently wiping Drew’s tears with the pads of his fingers. Well away from the shards. </p><p>Drew sniffled. If he touched his own face, he could accidentally push the shards in deeper. “You really think so?”</p><p>“I <em>know</em> so,” Virgil said, smiling.</p><p>His friends gathered around him then, asking Drew the kinds of grisly questions only other boys would think of. Virgil took that as his cue to step away. He looked over the team, finding no worse injuries than bruises and shallow cuts. Alan was already patching up the cuts with the first aid kit.</p><p>Although his role in the rescue had been minimal, the boys didn’t see it that way. They came to him for hugs, smushing their faces into his chest and circling their arms around his neck. He had to fend off questions about Thunderbird 2, and his sash ended up wet with little-boy tears and dirt, but he didn’t care.</p><p>Scott waited up the road for the ambulance, his brow set in worry. He kept checking his watch. “There it is,” he shouted, as if the flashing lights from the ambulance needed an introduction.</p><p>Soon enough, the boys were bundled up and ready for transport to the hospital. Virgil hung back, letting Scott handle the talk with the paramedics.</p><p>Alan came to stand beside him, arms crossed. “Another successful rescue,” he said.</p><p>“Mm-hmm.”</p><p>Alan sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “Will I ever get better at it?”</p><p>Virgil looked down at him. “At what?”</p><p>“What you did. Convincing the boys to move.” Alan’s face flushed red with frustration. “Nothing I said did anything, but then you showed up and it just... clicked for them. What made them trust you?”</p><p>Virgil wrapped his arm around Alan and smiled. “You need a softer touch, Alan. Not everyone responds to adrenaline.”</p><p>“But they were going to die if they didn’t leave,” Alan said. “Didn’t they understand that? Why stay put?”</p><p>“Sometimes it’s not the head that convinces them to move,” Virgil said. He tapped his heart. “You have to reach here too.”</p><p>Alan looked at his own heart, or tried to, and rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”</p><p>“We each have our own strengths. Don’t worry about it. This is why we’re a team,” Virgil said.</p><p>“Looks like we’ve got this one wrapped up,” Scott said, watching the ambulance drive away. “The parents have been notified. They’ll meet their kids at the hospital.”</p><p>Alan yawned. “That means it’s time to get some sleep.”</p><p>Virgil’s jaw cracked as he yawned too. How long had he been going? Rescuing the Duchess, then tea, then this bus rescue. Yeah, he needed his bed. But as Virgil headed back toward Thunderbird 2, he saw something blooming on the horizon that stopped him in his tracks.</p><p>Alan, who had been walking beside him, stopped too. “What is it?”</p><p>“The sky.”</p><p>Alan yawned again, making an inhuman noise. “Yeah, it’s called the <em>sun</em>, Virg. Let’s get outta here.”</p><p>“No.” His voice was just barely a whisper. “Not yet. Let me just...” Then he broke into a run, heading for his bird with only one thing on his mind. He searched through the equipment deck until he found what he had been looking for and wiped the dust off of it: his travel sketch book and paint kit. Grandma had given it to him as a birthday present last year, and he kept it in Thunderbird 2 but had never used it. The last thing he ever thought about at the end of a mission was stopping to paint the scenery. But that was before Penelope.</p><p>Alan trailed after him, going red-faced again. “But Virg, you’re running on empty. Two rescues? We need to get you home before you fall asleep at the wheel.”</p><p>Virgil didn’t feel as tired as he should have. Did that Russian Caravan give him a second wind, or was it just remembering her face, her words, that did it? He picked a boulder and sat cross-legged upon it. Opened the sketchbook to the very first crisp, clean page. He squeezed red and white acrylic paint onto the tiny palette and mixing and adjusting until he matched that soft baby pink color emerging from between the two mountains.</p><p>He didn’t have the time or luxury of spending hours in this one spot. He worked quickly, sharp brush strokes capturing the positions of the mountains and the dawn spreading like butter across a milky blue sky. As he painted, he thought of Penelope. Penelope and her dawn.</p><p>She’d opened a door for him then. A creaky little door that she probably didn’t open often. And he’s gotten to see a bit more of her. She woke up early just for the pleasure of enjoying the sunrise. He hadn’t known that about her. <em>She loved the dawn</em>... it felt like a gem he could hold keep in his pocket and touch whenever he liked.</p><p>“Scott, we’re going to be late,” Alan said over the wrist communicator. “Virg is <em>painting</em>.”</p><p>Scott didn’t say anything at first. But when his voice crackled through, it was a sound affirmative. “F.A.B. I’ll tell Dad.”</p><p>Virgil’s mouth lifted in a grateful smile. He didn’t speak. Just soaked in the brief but lovely colors of the dawn before it dissolved into a new day.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Penelope Creighton-Ward lounged upon a picnic blanket on the bank of the River Cam. Cambridge was rather chilly, as expected of autumn, but Penelope took “bundling up” to a new level with her hair wrapped in a silk scarf and a full-length coat covering her figure. She could not chance being recognized.</p><p>Cambridge was a hive of activity, filled to the brim with students and tourists. River Cam hosted a veritable army of punters, and that was often entertainment enough.The punts drifted lazily down the river; the flat-bottomed boats were not as elegant as gondolas but they held fond memories for Penelope.</p><p>Learning to punt was something her father had taught her when she had been old enough to hold onto the long pole; she prided herself on expertly propelling the punt forward and out of the way of the other punts in the water. That was more than could be said for the tourists. They wobbled and fumbled with the pole and some even fell into the river. But it was all good-natured fun. Being laughed at here didn’t carry a sting.</p><p>Penelope tucked her knees under her and scanned the water. The sun was too bright. She took out her binoculars and searched the faces of the punters within view.</p><p>“Haven’t seen them yet?” Dianne asked, stepping through the grass to the picnic blanket.</p><p>“They should be here any minute now,” Penelope said, sighing. “Parker rented the punt from Silver Street Bridge. It shouldn’t take him this long to get here.”</p><p>“Maybe he’s not as good at punting as he says he is,” Dianne said, settling down on the blanket next to Penelope.</p><p>“Oh dear. He <em>does</em> exaggerate.” Penelope set her binoculars down in her lap. Still, Parker drove FAB 1 to perfection. She had faith in her manservant’s mastery of locomotion. But she wasn’t so sure he could handle staying on Lilian’s good side.</p><p>“I’m glad our paths crossed again,” Dianne said, grinning. “I wouldn’t want to miss this.”</p><p>“Investigating a corrupt economics professor, was it?” Penelope asked.</p><p>“Something like that.”</p><p>Penelope hummed and lifted her binoculars again. “Two weeks, Dianne. Parker and I have not stopped to take a breath in two weeks.”</p><p>“First day off?”</p><p>“So far. No emergency calls as of yet. It better stay that way. Just for a few more hours,” Penelope said. Jeff hadn’t called yet. The world was calm for the moment, if the morning papers could be believed.</p><p>“What about the Duchess?” Dianne flopped onto her stomach and crossed her booted legs at the ankle.</p><p>Penelope would not soon forget the hospital visit. She had expected to deliver the bad news about Deborah’s destroyed painting. But the Duchess had surprised both her and Dandridge when she revealed that she’d been carrying the real <em>Portrait</em> <em>of a Gazelle</em> with her the whole time. It was miracle that the painting hadn’t been burnt in the house fire, but Penelope hadn’t been about to comment on that. It was enough that Dandridge and Deborah had their respective happy endings.</p><p>Still, Deborah could not keep her lips sealed, and soon enough she accepted offers in the hospital from both local and international papers who had caught wind of the kidnapping. A magazine even offered Deborah a hefty sum to buy the rights to her life story. Still bandaged up and exhausted from her ordeal, Deborah hadn’t missed a beat when she asked for more money. Penelope thought that had been wise, considering how quickly Deborah would return to the gambling tables. But at least her friend was taken care of. The matter was settled.</p><p>“I read the article,” Dianne added, resting her chin in her hands. “Deborah is typically forthcoming, isn’t she? And yet all she’d managed to say about International Rescue was that they were ‘romantic young men.’ How hard did you work to keep the details out of the press?”</p><p>“Not insurmountable,” Penelope said with a slight shrug. “She only met one of them in person.”</p><p>Dianne angled her head to look up at Penelope. “Which one?”</p><p>Penelope shifted on the blanket. She did not squirm. She never squirmed. “Virgil.”</p><p>She name-dropped the boys from time to time with Dianne, in the same way Dianne did with the revolving door of spies in FAB. Still, she hesitated before she said his name and knew Dianne would pick up on it.</p><p>Dianne looked like a cat presented with a bowl of cream. “At last. The mysterious V.T.”</p><p>Penelope faced deadly danger before. But this was new. Her usual poise, her cold mask that warned her enemies that she could shoot off their heads and do it with her pinkie out, did not work all of a sudden. Heat rose to her cheeks. Her hands trembled. No cup of tea waited to soothe her. Why hadn’t she asked Parker to pack her tea? Oh, right, because she hadn’t wanted to delay his punting date.</p><p>Dianne saw her expression and kicked her feet. “I already know they’re the Tracys. And I’m assuming Jeff didn’t name two of his boys with V names. Not great spywork. Even a kid could figure it out if they had all the cards. And he wasn’t exactly hiding himself very well with those initials. Not from people like us.”</p><p>Punters crawled past each other, bumping and laughing and cracking jokes. They were part of another world.</p><p>“Penny?” Dianne poked Penelope in her side. “Hey, don’t freeze up on me. I’m your friend, remember. Some obnoxious FAB agents would say I was just your protege, but we’re more than that, aren’t we?”</p><p>“Of course you are,” Penelope said, her voice thick.</p><p>“Well, then. If you happened to have cracked your marble exterior on one of these boys, it’s okay. Happens to everyone.” Dianne settled her chin back into her hands. “What I want to know is, <em>why</em> did you buy his painting and keep it secret? Shouldn’t he know it’s you?”</p><p>Penelope felt herself relaxing, just enough to unlock her jaw. They were moving from feelings to problems, and she was better at talking about problems. “He’s never shared his art outside of his family. It would be too risky for the boys to gain notoriety that would put too many eyes on them. Whatever made him finally try selling his art... well, it’s a vulnerable position. He must believe that a stranger found his art and loves it. Not me. Not someone he already knows. Otherwise it won’t mean anything.”</p><p>Dianne blew out her breath. “Now unusual of you to <em>create</em> a problem.”</p><p>“I know, dear.” She looked down at her hands. Squeezed the binoculars. “I bought his second painting.”</p><p>“You did?”</p><p>“Reginald contacted me about it over the weekend. I had Parker drive me to the gallery and wait in the car while I went in.” A smiled ghosted over her lips. “John’s speaking for Virgil on these calls. He negotiated a higher price than Virgil originally asked for. I was happy to pay it.”</p><p>“Does this John know you’re behind it?”</p><p>“No. No, I stayed out of hearing range. Relayed everything to Reginald to say.”</p><p>“What does the painting look like?”</p><p>That, Penelope could not answer without falling to pieces.</p><p>Reginald had unwrapped the painting, freshly delivered to the gallery, after she arrived. She couldn’t remember how she had kept her cool after the paper tore away and the dawn laid itself out in rosy ribbons through the gap between twin mountains. It was like being handed a chunk of her heart she had left behind.</p><p>Virgil had more than just listened to her on the flight to New York. He found a dawn to paint, probably from one of his rescues. Then he threw it like a bottled note into the sea for a stranger to find. But would a stranger react to the painting the same way she had? Virgil would never know. Penelope could not let someone else buy this painting. <em>A New Dawn</em>, as he named it, had to be hers.</p><p>“Penelope?” Dianne poked her again. This time a harder jab.</p><p>“Mountains,” she blurted, like the word had been dodged in her lungs and just popped out. “In the dawn.”</p><p>“Sounds exciting,” Dianne said somewhat skeptically.</p><p>“You have no idea.”</p><p>Dianne huffed and drew herself back up on the blanket. She crossed her legs—something she could do in jeans and knee-high boots with enough respectability. “So, the painting dilemma is shelved for now. But what about moving forward with Virgil?”</p><p>Penelope stiffened. “It would be improper.”</p><p>“For who? They’re Americans.”</p><p>“Dianne,” she hissed.</p><p>“The Tracys aren’t bogged down by pomp and circumstance like us. And frankly, Penny, you don’t have the pressure on you that you did when your parents were living.” Dianne brushed her hand over her bangs, flattening them as she talked. “It’s rubbish, Penelope. Whatever you’re telling yourself your can’t do. True, <em>stinking</em> rubbish. I say let down your guard a little. Crack a window open. See what happens.”</p><p>Crack a window open? Penelope let out a puff of a laugh, remembering how her mother used to moan about drafts in the mansion.</p><p>“Pathetic excuse for a laugh, Lady P, but I’ll take what I can get. Will you consider it, at least? He doesn’t need to know your deep dark fetish for his paintings. But he <em>should</em> know that you would welcome a well-timed kiss if the occasion arose.”</p><p>Penelope tucked a wisp of hair back into her scarf. Her heart beat sluggishly in her chest, dreading this moment but also waiting for it to change. Dianne said a kiss. <em>Just</em> a kiss. Could she let down her armor just long enough to allow herself that?</p><p>Virgil’s lips were as unassuming as his face, but she wondered about them. He took care of himself, unlike Alan and Gordon who ran around with chapped lips, or Scott when he chewed too hard worrying and made them bleed. Virgil had a soft-looking mouth. How soft? She wanted to know. Badly.</p><p>A commotion broke out on the river.</p><p>Penelope raised her binoculars and zeroed in on Parker and Lilian just rounding the corner in their punt. “Oh my,” she murmured.</p><p>Parker was struggling with the long pole. He had the right technique, the right grip, but clearly lost his focus with Lilian bickering at him from her cushy spot facing him on the punt. Lilian waved her cigarette in the air as she pointed out the flaws in his stance.</p><p>“She shouldn’t be smoking on there,” Dianne said, snickering.</p><p>“I don’t believe anyone will stop her,” Penelope said mildly.</p><p>There was hope. Penelope could see that now. In the way Lilian had dressed for the outing, with hair styled and lipstick on the end of her cigarette and the shiny blue dress that looked new, along with heels. Lilian, in heels? Penelope assumed her cook lived in the Mary Janes she wore to work.</p><p>Parker, for his part, looked as if he had stepped out of the Edwardian Era with hips straw boater hat and suit of the same matching color. His face was flushed and his mouth running a mile a minute to spar with her along the river. The people in the punts beside them stopped to listen.</p><p>“Stop givin’ me a ‘ard time, Lil,” Parker said, pushing on the bed of the river with his pole. “Just you try it. If you weren’t all dressed up, I’d make <em>you</em> do it.”</p><p>“Make me? Why, it would be my pleasure to show you ‘ow it’s done,” Lilian said, as loud as ever.</p><p>“How tiresome,” Penelope said. They were close enough now that she could lower her binoculars. Fighting again. Just like in the kitchen. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea after all.</p><p>“Wait,” Dianne said, holding up her hand.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“I have a feeling...” Dianne said. “Wait for it.”</p><p>Lilian rose from her seat and smoothed down her dress. Then she gingerly crossed to the other end of the boat and took the pole out of Parker’s hand. “Watch ‘ow it’s done,” she said, handing him her cigarette.</p><p>He took the cigarette. Then looked at the red lipstick on the end. Then back at her.</p><p>But Lilian didn’t climb up to take her turn punting. Instead, she dug her fingers into Parker’s collar and crashed her lips against his.</p><p>The kiss was sloppy. Too much tongue for all the children watching. Parker kept his eyes squeezed shut the whole time. He dropped the cigarette and it rolled into the river. Lilian lifted her foot like a movie actress, inspiring fellow punters and onlookers to cheer and clap. Dianne joined in, rising to her feet and whistling.</p><p>Penelope stood as well, her legs wobbly with relief and an ache she couldn’t place. How long had she waited for this to happen with Parker and Lilian? Two of the most important people in her world, finally getting along. Or, rather more than getting along.</p><p>When they came up for air, Parker’s lips and cheeks were slashed with red lipstick. Lilian laughed and grabbed a tissue to try and clean him up.</p><p>“Don’t say a word about it,” Lilian said, dapping at his face with no luck. “I wouldn’t have worn this shade if I knew we were goin’ to kiss.”</p><p>“<em>You</em> kissed <em>me</em>,” Parker said, pulling a handkerchief out of his own pocket. He didn’t sound upset about it, as loud as he was. Not in the least.</p><p>“I’d do it again if you weren’t so smug,” Lilian said.</p><p>“Me, smug?” Parker all but shouted.</p><p>Penelope laughed. A soft, bright sound that seemed to travel down the grass and hit the water with a splash.</p><p>Parker heard her. Of course he heard her. His eyes searched the bank until their eyes met. Then his whole face turned beet-red. “M’lady!”</p><p>Penelope flicked her hand at him, smiling. “Well done, Parker! Carry on.” </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Did you catch the nod to Alan’s famous punch in Season 2? I loved having an excuse to allude to that. </p><p>I had so much fun with this chapter - I can’t help but imagine Virgil giving off steady, warm-fuzzy feelings to anyone in need to rescue. But also, I really wish Rhapsody Angel (Dianne) had a real personality in Captain Scarlet because she’s just so interesting on paper. Anyone who worked with Penelope would be. </p><p>Parker and Lilian again! Yessss. So, I visited Cambridge on my college trip to England and went punting, which is what I’m drawing on here. I didn’t punt myself - we hired one of the students to give our group a tour along the river - but it was such a fun experience. When Parker had said he wanted to take Cook punting in TOS, I had to jump on making his dream a reality here haha.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Words We Had To Describe The Same Feeling</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Francois needs a model for his fall fashion show and Penelope can’t say no to another chance at wearing his new Penelon creations. Virgil and his brothers try to prevent a disaster from happening aboard a superyacht - the same superyacht hosting Francois’s fashion show. The last thing Penelope and Virgil expect is to run into each other and steal a moment alone to test the waters.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lady Penelope had a weakness for clothing, so she could not turn Francois Lemaire’s request when he asked her to stand in for one of his models who had broken her leg right before his annual fall fashion show. She and Parker took FAB 1 to Monte Carlo where she joined the other models aboard the <em>Seaduction</em>, a new superyacht to be christened after the show.</p><p>Monte Carlo’s oceanfront glittered like a gembox on fire. Penelope met Francois on the deck when she arrived, admiring the stylish yachts moored around her and the temptations of the casinos and restaurants waiting on the rocky shore.</p><p>“You are my savior, Lady Penelope!” Francois had said, kissing her cheeks. “How can I ever thank you?”</p><p>Penelope’s cheeks tingled from the friendly assault. Sometimes the French were a bit too friendly for her taste, but she trusted Francois to be nothing but a gentleman—albeit a gentleman who attracted trouble thanks to his genius with fashion. “I wouldn’t mind a new Penelon for my wardrobe, though I won’t hold you to it, Francois. Just having the privilege of wearing your new designs for the night is enough of a reward.”</p><p>“How you flatter me,” Francois said. “We’ll see what we can do about a new dress.”</p><p>Francois held out his arm and she took it, leaning into him as they fought the lively wind whipping across the water. Monte Carlo tended to be warmer than, say, England, in the fall, but it could not fight off the changing of the seasons completely. Penelope drew her thick, white cape closer to her, burrowing her chin in the faux-fur at the collar.</p><p>“Tell me about the <em>Seaduction</em>,” Penelope asked as they watched the staff set up the stage for the fashion show on the deck.</p><p>“The newest pearl of the sea,” Francois said, “and it is truly a marvel that I have it for <em>my</em> venue. I don’t know much about ships but rumor is that it is the fastest superyacht on the water. Top secret engine. The captain has been given permission to open the <em>Seaduction</em> for our guests to view after the show, but the engine room is off-limits. Not that it matters to me. My only concern is that the show is a success!”</p><p>“Of course, Francois. With me modeling, you cannot have anything less than a perfect show,” Penelope said, knowing she had to go a bit overboard to calm Francois’s nerves. He did so work himself up to a froth at times from worrying.</p><p>He thanked her again and dropped her off at the cabin where the models prepared for the show. The buzz of activity as models and staff dashed around excited Penelope. She didn’t have as many opportunities to model as she used to, with most of them being for charity, but she loved the thrill of putting on clothes she may never have tried on her own. It wouldn’t do for a high society woman like herself to shop at just any clothing store. She had to be picky to maintain her image. Fashion shows allowed her be whatever the fashion designer needed. Modeling required her to shed her identity as a Lady, if only for a short time. </p><p>“Hurry now, Lady Penelope,” Deirdre said, appearing from behind the rack of Penelon clothes. She untied Penelope’s cape with practiced fingers and gently folded it over her arm. “Let’s get you in your first outfit.”</p><p>“Good to see you again, Deirdre,” Pennelope said, allowing the liberty. She could have taken her own cape off, but it was no use arguing. There never seemed to be enough time before a fashion show to get ready and the room was already tense with preparations. “How is it being Francois’s new assistant?”</p><p>“A pleasure, if you must know,” Deirdre said, hanging up Penelope’s cape. “I would never betray Mr. Lemaire. And the man needs looking after.”</p><p>Penelope pulled her cable knit sweater off before Deirdre did it for her. The room was thankfully heated, so she didn’t shiver as she undressed. “I’m glad he has someone he can trust,” she said.</p><p>Deirdre smiled for a moment, then plucked a Penelon number from the rack. “Put this one on, then go to makeup.”</p><p>“Are you in the show tonight?” Penelope asked.</p><p>“Of course. Mr. Lemaire wouldn’t <em>dream</em> of leaving me out of it,” Deirdre said. Her auburn hair in its sleek bob had already been styled, her eyelids splashed with baby blue eyeshadow and false lashes that looked like feathers on her cheeks.</p><p>Good. Penelope had hoped that the job change wouldn’t have cost Deirdre her love of modeling. Retreating to her corner of the room, she set to work on donning Francois’s creation. Unlike other modeling jobs, Penelope didn’t need to be sewn into the clothes. Francois had no aversion to zippers and hook-and-eye closures. She could and <em>did</em> put the number on herself. And what a number it was!</p><p>Penelope shimmied into Penelon slacks that looked and felt like pink silk. Over it went a matching silky kimono that fell in steams to the floor, with curls of fabric gathered like vines at her wrists. A pink belt clinched the kimono in place, securing the exposed strip of white skin between her breasts. Once in the makeup chair, her eyelids were dusted with rose gold shadow and expertly lined in a sleek cat eye. Her lips remained naked, as were the other models’, with only a dash of clear gloss to keep them moist-looking. The hair dresser had only minor adjustments to make on her honey locks, spraying them down into loose waves that fell to her shoulders.</p><p>“M’Lady,” Parker said, just as Penelope was finishing up at the makeup table. “M’Lady, sorry to interrupt, but it’s your compact.”</p><p>“That’s quite all right, Parker,” she said, thanking the hair dresser and gingerly setting out of her chair. “I was finished anyway. Hand me the compact, will you?”</p><p>“Certainly, m’lady,” Parker said. They both moved to a deserted corner of the room, behind the rack of clothes the models arrived in. Penelope bumped against her own cape as she took the compact from Parker and flipped it open. “Yes, Jeff?”</p><p>Jeff’s face appeared on screen where the mirror had been. “Wow, Penelope, what’s the occasion?” he asked, sounding smooth despite the slight rise of one silver eyebrow.</p><p>“Nevermind that now. Parker told me you’ve been calling. What is the matter?”</p><p>“We received a request to investigate a possible disaster at the <em>Seaduction</em> in Monte Carlo,” Jeff said, looking down at his papers. “Seems that the superyacht’s engine is more impressive than the papers say. The US Navy funded its creation and expects it returned after its christening for testing. However, it seems that the Navy caught wind of a plot to destroy the engine tonight by saboteurs. Monaco won’t let the Navy anywhere near the superyacht so it’s up to us to ensure nothing happens tonight. Hundreds of people’s lives could be in danger if the <em>Seaduction</em> goes up in flames.”</p><p>“Like my own life,” Penelope said breezily. “That is exactly where I am now, Jeff. Francois’s fall fashion show is part of the christening party. He asked me to model for him at the last minute.”</p><p>“I had no idea,” Jeff said, his brow crinkling. “I already sent the boys over.”</p><p><em>The boys? Which ones?</em> Her pulse drummed at the thought of Virgil showing up tonight. Penelope was about to ask, but she heard Deirdre call for the models. Five minutes until showtime. “I have to go, Jeff, but thank you for the information. Parker and I will look for anything amiss.”</p><p>She snapped the compact shut before Jeff could reply. A small smile ghosted her lips before she gave up her private little corner of the room to join the other models. Francois really <em>did</em> seem to attract trouble with his shows, though at least this time it had nothing to do with the Penelon.</p><p>
  
</p><hr/><p> </p><p>A waiter passed with a tray of bubbling champagne, but Virgil didn’t reach out to pluck one for himself. He kept his hands at his sides, only to nervously smooth down the front of his black tuxedo when he thought no one was looking. He would have felt more comfortable in his International Rescue uniform, but Scott had been adamant about not boarding the <em>Seaduction</em> with their secret identities on full display. No one should know that International Rescue was there tonight. Their birds were supposed to show up only <em>after</em> a disaster happened, not before. No need to stir up panic.</p><p>Gordon didn’t seem to share his brother’s worries. He wore a matching tux with his fluffy ginger hair combed into submission. As the tray sailed by, Gordon grabbed a champagne glass and sniffed the liquid.</p><p>“No drinking on the job,” Virgil hissed.</p><p>“I wasn’t going to,” Gordon replied, “but you have to admit that not holding one makes you look like a weirdo. Everyone’s got a drink.”</p><p>“I don’t care,” Virgil muttered. </p><p>“The show’s about the start,” Gordon said with a grin. He grabbed Virgil’s arm and tugged. “Come on. We need a better view.”</p><p>“We’re not here for the show,” Virgil said, then wondered why he even bothered. The truth was, all tours of the superyacht had stopped when the announcement about Mr. Lemaire’s show came over the speakers. They would resume after the show. Virgil had noticed the tight security on the superyacht and allowed himself a sigh of relief. Let the men hired to protect the <em>Seaduction</em> do their job, at least for a little while.</p><p>His wrist communicator flashed. Incoming message. Virgil let Gordon lead him and looked down to see Scott’s face flash across the watch face. “Trouble, Scott?”</p><p>“If you call the coincidence of Lady Penelope being here tonight ‘trouble,’ then I guess so,” Scott said. Unlike him and Gordon, Scott had opted out of going to the christening, deciding instead to stay with his bird and monitor the situation from there. “Dad just spoke with her. She’s in Mr. Lemaire’s fashion show.”</p><p>Virgil had no response to that. He simply stared at Scott’s little face on his wrist.</p><p>Gordon shoved <em>his</em> face up against Virgil’s and grinned down at Scott. “That’s great! We have backup. She’ll let us know if anything’s going on behind the scenes at the show.”</p><p>Scott’s brow crinkled just for a moment. Then he seemed to relax, “Be alert. We don’t want to lose this ship while it’s on our watch.”</p><p>“All for some fantastic engine,” Gordon said, rolling his eyes. “Whoever designed it could be Brains’ rival.”</p><p>Virgil saw a muscle jump in Scott’s jaw. He mumbled something that Virgil couldn’t hear over the noise of the party. “What was that, Scott?”</p><p>“I said, ‘as if that were possible,’” Scott said, his blue eyes narrowing. “They probably needed a whole team to design this engine. Brains could have done it in his sleep.”</p><p>Virgil smiled. Sometimes Scott was just too protective of all of them. It was heart-warming, if not suffocating at times. “Show’s about the start. We’ll check in with you after.”</p><p>“F.A.B.,” Scott said.</p><p>Virgil’s wristwatch went back to looking like a watch. He let Gordon direct him through the crowd, already rowdy from the free drinks and high spirits of the crisp, cold night backlit by Monte Carlo’s charming lights. The stage for the fashion show was set up on the main deck of the superyacht. The actual buyers had reserved seats on either side on the runway, but the rest of the deck was fair game for the people who came out for the christening. Gordon found them as spot with a clear view of the stage; luckily they were both tall, so they’d have no problems seeing over the heads of the crowd.</p><p>As the lights dimmed on the deck, Virgil brushed against Gordon and felt something hard at Gordon’s waist. He grabbed his brother’s wrist and whispered, “You didn’t.”</p><p>Gordon chuckled. “It’s a mission, right? What if we need to stop the saboteurs from running?”</p><p>So he brought his handgun. Virgil muttered a curse. He should have known. “And which cartridge did you load?”</p><p>“Stun-gas, of course,” Gordon said, his grin widening.</p><p>“You better not be lying.”</p><p>“Virg! I know what I’m doing. Don’t worry.”</p><p>He worried. Not like Scott did, but as second oldest, in situations like this that were not International Rescue’s norm, he felt the anxiety as if it was an old friend. Brought him back to the days when he was the next babysitter after Scott, responsible for keeping his younger brothers from tearing each other apart.</p><p>“Say, can you remember the last time we wore tuxes?” Gordon chirped as the lights went out and the stage glowed, demanding attention.</p><p>Virgil did remember. Even as he turned his attention to the stage, he answered Gordon with a wistfulness he couldn’t hide. “Paris. After Anderbad.”</p><p>“Oh yeah. That’s right,” Gordon whispered as the crowd hushed.</p><p>As the dark and silence settled over the deck, Virgil remembered the way Penelope’s skin had felt against his hand in that tunnel. His breath caught in his throat.</p><p>Deirdre came out on the stage, a long runaway draped in velvet and framed on either side with curtains printed with Francois Lemaire’s sketches. She started the show off with such fanfare that Virgil couldn’t help but feel the hum of anticipation in the air. A sweet, jazzy number coaxed the first model out from between the curtains.</p><p>“<em>Oh</em>,” Gordon sighed, “Will you look at that dress?”</p><p>As the first model strutted down the runway, Virgil couldn’t help but agree with his brother that the dress <em>was</em> a stunner. Seemingly made purely of glittering scales the colors of the bottom of the ocean, the dress rippled as the model moved. The ends, made of Penelon mimicking tulle, seemed to float.</p><p>“She looks like a mermaid,” Gordon said in a hushed, reverent tone.</p><p>“Sure does,” Virgil said. His heart melted when he recognized the boy Gordon once was still kicking: the boy obsessed with the sea and all its creatures, both real and mythical. Gordon never had gotten over his love of mermaids. Even serving with WASP only seemed to have strengthened that fascination—which was funny, since Gordon must have learned then that mermaids weren’t real. Ah, well. Still, Virgil loved moments like this.</p><p>Penelope emerged from between the curtains next. She wore a strange little number that looked like a cross between a suit and a bathrobe, the bathrobe part fluttering behind her in waves. Virgil sucked in his breath; she wore nothing underneath the robe, exposing a thin strip of skin from her collarbone almost to her navel. He tugged on his collar. When did Mr. Lemaire inch into more risqué designs? Virgil couldn’t tear his eyes away. His gaze swept over that narrow, forbidden strip of skin—she was probably freezing out there, exposed to the wind like everyone else—to the soft waves of her honey-colored hair and shimmering eyelids.</p><p>“How did Mr. Lemaire know Lady Penelope loves pajamas so much?” Gordon asked brightly. </p><p>It took a moment for Virgil to understand what Gordon was saying. A few missions in the past had brought International Rescue to the Creighton-Ward Mansion in the morning, and each time, Penelope always greeted them in her house coat and pajamas. Long-standing routine dictated that she take her morning tea in her pajamas, and she intended to keep routine, emergency or not. “Mr. Lemaire has known her a long time,” is all Virgil can offer as an answer.</p><p>How many times, if ever, had <em>Mr. Lemaire</em> seen Lady Penelope in her pajamas? His skin felt hot. He pushed the thought away.</p><p>Penelope disappeared behind the curtains. More models strutted and posed in time with the beat of the music. Time ticked by excruciatingly slow. In the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Gordon take an experimental sip of the champagne in his hand, but even that fled his notice when Penelope stepped out again in her next outfit. </p><p>This time, she wore a silver dress buttoned to her throat with exaggerated shoulder pads making Penelope look like she hid wings underneath the fabric. A trail of matching silver buttons led the way down to her upper thighs where the rest of the dress looked torn to shreds, exposing Penelope’s long, pale legs. The strips were beaded, glittering madly with each step she took, and that tight, too-warm feeling crept back up on him. Had he gained weight between now and the last time he wore this tux? It suddenly felt too constricting.</p><p>He could breathe again after she finished her walk, but it turned out she had one more outfit to model before the end of the show. This one was more conservative than the others, but Mr. Lemaire was still pushing it with skin exposure, considering the weather. Penelope emerged in a powder blue silk dress with puffy mesh sleeves clinging from shoulder to wrist like vaporous clouds. But when she turned on the runway, Virgil made a strangled noise in his throat: the whole back of the dress was <em>gone</em>. Just gone. The sight of her back burned the backs of his eyelids. He could still see it even after Mr. Lemaire came out himself and confetti spilled on top of the beaming man.</p><p>“Show’s over,” Gordon said, needlessly, as the crowd grew restless and excited in the aftermath of the show. Waiters poured out again with fresh glasses and appetizers hot from the kitchen. “The tours are going to start up again. Perfect time for the saboteurs to make a move.”</p><p>Virgil squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, clearing away the hot feeling still clinging to his skin. “We should split up.”</p><p>Gordon nodded. “I’ll take port, you take starboard.”</p><p>Simple enough. According to the floor plans of The Seaduction, there were two ways to the engine room; the saboteurs could take either. “Maintain contact with Scott at all times. Check in with me. This is a big ship and the night isn’t young anymore. We don’t have much time before the party’s over,” Virgil said.</p><p>Gordon grinned. “F.A.B.” He plunked his glass on the tray of a passing waiter and disappeared into the crowd.</p><p>Virgil sighed. Time for the mission. No distractions. He melted into the crowd, keeping his eyes and ears open. Mr. Lemaire’s private party for VIP guests started up indoors, but Virgil wouldn’t be able to get in without Penelope’s help. No matter. She had that space covered. It was his job to see if anyone was sneaking around the rest of the superyacht.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>For the after party, Mr. Lemaire wanted his models to stay clothed in the last outfits they had worn on the runway. Penelope wished she could have worn one of the other two outfits because her last dress was a cold one. Even with the heating pumping into the room, dampening the air, she still felt a chill. Her back was probably covered in goose pimples. Not very dignified. Her nose, when she touched it, felt numb. Had it turned pink? Penelope wished for a cup of tea but Parker wasn’t disguised among the wait staff; he’d gone down to the lower decks to see if he could blend in with the crew.</p><p>The fashion show had taken place on the Skylounge Deck, the very top of the <em>Seaduction</em>, and the party was in the entertainment room behind the runway. Only guests who had been specifically invited to attend the fashion show were allowed inside, required to show their invitation and ID. Penelope doubted that any of these guests could be the saboteurs, with the rest of the superyacht open for public tours, but her gaze swept the room anyway, looking for anyone out of place.</p><p>“You were <em>perfection</em>, Lady Penelope!” Francois crowed, coming over to her with open arms. “May I have this dance with you to celebrate?”</p><p>“Very well, Francois,” she said, taking his hand.</p><p>Francois was a smooth dancer, never tugging her too close to pushing her through the steps. Her eyes crinkled with mirth as he made jokes about his rivals in the industry who had accepted his invites with grudging respect. “They know when they have been beaten,” he said amiably. “Penelon will rule the fashion world. I proved it yet again tonight.”</p><p>Penelope swayed to the music, her gaze alighting on every face, memorizing them. “Are you sure no one would wish you ill here? I worry after the last time.”</p><p>“Madeline is behind bars, ma belle. She was the most ferocious of all,” Francois said, somewhat sadly.</p><p>Penelope didn’t think Madeline would be the end of Francois’s enemies, but perhaps tonight he was right. Jeff said the superyacht’s engine was the target. Penelon, in all its incarnations, would be left alone for now.</p><p>After the dance, Penelope excused herself, begging for fresh air. The last thing she wanted was to step outside in her drafty dress, but she wouldn’t be any help to International Rescue at the party. That much was now clear to her. Penelope shivered as she stepped outside, nodding to the guard at the door, and hurried back to the room where she and the other models had gotten ready for the show. She grabbed her cape from the rack and fastened it over her Penelon dress. From her handbag, she withdrew her compact handgun. Capes were so useful; one would never know she carried a gun underneath. Much warmer now, she went back outside and began her search of the rest of the superyacht. </p><p>Wind whipped her hair back off her shoulders as she took the stairs down to the Upper Deck, where the crowd thinned out. Clumps of people waited for their turn on the tour here. Laughter and the clinking of glasses filled the air. Penelope held her handgun in the shadows of her cape and scanned the deck. No one but her seemed to be stalking this deck. Too busy perhaps for a saboteur to make a move.</p><p>Penelope descended to the Main Deck. Shadows washed over the deck. The party noises above sounded fainter, like she’d left it all behind in a few short steps. She moved slowly down toward the stern where the deck tapered off into an informal dance floor canopied by strings of lights. The area was empty now in favor of the real party on the Skylounge Deck. Penelope craned her neck, staring up at the tiny, golden bulbs. If they had been at sea, the view would have been picturesque with the sea frothing at the back of the <em>Seaduction</em>, making trails in the water. Instead, there was only a view of the other docked yachts and ships stretching out along Monte Carlo’s oceanfront.</p><p>She didn’t sense someone behind her until the deck creaked; then she whipped around and shoved the muzzle of her handgun into the belly of whoever dared sneak up on her.</p><p>“Penelope,” Virgil said, her name punching out of his chest like a breath, “it’s just me.”</p><p>“Virgil?” She withdrew her gun and sighed. “You really should know better, dear boy.”</p><p>“I couldn’t quite believe it was <em>you</em> down here,” he admitted. He had raised his hands, palms up, when she’d shoved the gun at him; now he lowered them. “Shouldn’t you be at the after party?”</p><p>“Not when the threat isn’t there. Francois will be fine. So will the Penelon. Whoever’s making trouble tonight must be after the engine,” Penelope said. “Who else is with you?”</p><p>“Scott’s back in Thunderbird 1, monitoring the situation from there,” Virgil said, slipping his hands in his pockets. “Gordon’s on the other side of the yacht.”</p><p>The strings of lights didn’t particularly help her see Virgil, but her eyes were adjusting the dark. As he talked, she studied him. Realized he wasn’t wearing his International Rescue uniform. Of course he wasn’t—if they could stop the saboteurs from blowing up the <em>Seaduction</em> and making off with the engine’s blueprints, then there needn’t be a rescue to advertise to the public.</p><p>Still, she couldn’t help but admire the way his tuxedo fit him. His shoulders looked broader, his waist trimmer. The bow tie at his throat, adorning the stiff collar, snagged her attention. He seemed to swallow with an exaggeration the closer she watched—was he nervous? About what? Surely not the mission. </p><p>Dianne’s words came back to her then. That kiss she suggested. What was it again? A well-timed kiss if the occasion arose. Was <em>this</em> an occasion? Penelope realized with a pounding heart that it could be. The strings of lights were romantic. The jazz band was faint but present. The deck belonged to them for the moment.</p><p>She wondered, oh she wondered, if she still had that old charm. Memories of her days before the Federal Agents Bureau and International Rescue came back to her, when she was just a pretty rich girl rubbing elbows with her fellow elite. How did she catch the eye of a lad then? How did she tell him without words what she wanted? Penelope felt full of cobwebs, shamefully so, but Virgil was nervous and he was <em>never</em> nervous. It gave her strength.</p><p>She took a step closer to him. Tilted her chin down, burying it in the soft fluff of the faux-fur collar. When she was younger, hadn’t she used this trick of looking up through her eyelashes? <em>Yes, yes she had</em>. Tonight was the perfect moment for it, since she was wearing false lashes as thick as curtains. Penelope kept her hands under her cape, fingers curled into fists. He wouldn’t see her own nerves. Chin down, her blue eyes flashed up at him through her lashes.</p><p>She heard Virgil’s soft inhale. His shoulders jumped to his ears like a twitch, then down again. He seemed to float rather than step closer to her, slowly lowering his head.</p><p>She held her position, scared it would fail her. Scared she was just imagining her power in this moment.</p><p>Virgil’s own hands stayed at his sides. So maybe she was wrong. Maybe he wasn’t going to kiss her after all. He’d cupped her cheek back in Anderbad. Had touched her hand during tea. <em>Was</em> <em>she</em> <em>wrong?</em></p><p>But then, even without the help of his hands, his lips found her lips.</p><p>Virgil kissed sweet and closed-mouthed. He pulled back, letting the cold chill her lips, before warming her up again with another lingering kiss. The pressure of his mouth on hers was simple yet decadent. </p><p>Penelope chased his lips when he pulled back, her eyes closed, following the heat of his breath. He was stubbornly tall. Out of reach. Her arms hung useless at her sides. The gun, presumably, still dangled from her fingers.</p><p>Instead of a short-lived press of his lips, Virgil slid his mouth over hers, creating delicious friction. Penelope might have dropped the gun. She heard a clatter on the deck near her feet. But then there was just her face and his face in the dark.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Virgil hated second-guessing himself. He had honed his instincts over the years, and oftentimes trusting his gut had been the difference between success and failure. But he had still hesitated when he saw the flick of Penelope’s eyes under her lashes, the blue heat there calling to him in a way he couldn’t explain. He had just known. He’d known and already he’d been pulled too taut to walk away from her.</p><p>Penelope’s face, sprinkled with tiny, golden lights, looked both welcoming and impossible. <em>How, exactly, do you kiss a goddess?</em></p><p>Slow and simple and lingering, he decided. A woman as elegant and refined as Penelope deserved nothing less.</p><p>Each time their lips touched, Virgil let himself feel it fully: the softness of her pale pink lips, the shape of them under his, the pressure that zinged straight down to his toes. Her perfume, Soupçon de Peril, engulfed him this close—fresh-blooming wisteria and a note of musk that reminded him of gun smoke.</p><p>They kissed like that for a long stretch, he felt, just two lips meeting by themselves. It was magical at first, but as heat rushed through his veins, he wanted to touch her more. He pulled back and opened his eyes. With her jaw and chin buried deep in faux-fur, cupping her face would be a clumsy operation.</p><p>“Virgil,” she whispered, her eyelashes fluttering. She hadn’t made a sound while they kissed, but he had felt the way she dragged air into her lungs between kisses, felt the gravity of her leaning into him, matching his pressure.</p><p>Virgil took a shuddering breath, shut his eyes, and reached through the slit in her cape. He half-expected her to vanish like a moonbeam. But his hands found her arms under the cape, covered as they were in cloudy-mesh sleeves. He rubbed her arms gently, but the mesh still scratched at her skin. That would account for her sharp exhale and Penelope standing on her toes, kissing his chin. </p><p>Her hands were there, suddenly, wrapping around his wrists and leading him to the back of her dress. Virgil kissed her and his cold fingers found the knobs of her spine. He let out of soft moan against her mouth; when he first saw the expanse of her back on the runway, he never dreamed he’d be touching her there. He stroked her back, lost in the velvety feel of her skin. Penelope’s fingers dug into the front of his tux, hanging on.</p><p>He changed the angle, tilting his head a bit more, and her mouth opened, just soft enough for him to flick his tongue through—</p><p>A shot sounding suspiciously like the stun-gas fired from an International Rescue gun shattered the moment. Followed by an explosion on the Lower Deck. <em>The</em> <em>Seaduction</em> rocked under their feet.</p><p>They broke apart, lungs heaving. Virgil ran a shaky hand through his hair. He felt flushed and wobbly. But also very, very on-edge about what he just heard.</p><p>Penelope picked up her handgun, her lips swollen and well-kissed.</p><p>“Gordon,” Virgil said.</p><p>“Parker,” Penelope said.</p><p>“Virgil! Come in, Virgil,” Scott said from the wristwatch. “We have a problem. Gordon’s found the saboteurs.”</p><p>“I’m here, Scott,” Virgil said, careful to aim his watch face away. He didn’t want to give Scott a hint of what he had been up to. “I’ll find him.”</p><p>“Parker can’t be far behind,” Penelope said. She sucked in her bottom lip.</p><p>“Lady Penelope?” Scott asked, his brows furrowed in frustration as he tried to see her when Virgil aimed the watch face her way. “No, Parker checked in with Gordon earlier. Said he’d find a way into the engine room. He must be there now. Gordon didn’t get that far.”</p><p>“On my way to him now, Scott,” Penelope said.</p><p>“F.A.B.,” Scott said, and then the watch face returned to normal.</p><p>“That was...” Virgil stalled. He didn’t have words those kisses. How perfect and warm and soft she was.</p><p>Penelope looked at him with those blue eyes. Then her cool mask slid back into place. Back to business. “Until next time,” she murmured, nodding, and disappeared into the shadows.</p><p><em>Until next time. Until next time?</em> Air left his lungs as if she had just punched him.</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I’m running out of applicable chapter titles using Young the Giant’s “Art Exhibit” lol. I’ll probably be switching to another song for the next chapter. </p><p>Also, I have plans for at least two other fics after this one and I’m planting the seeds here for one ;) Also nodding to a future project of Mothmandalore’s, since we vaguely share a TB universe. </p><p>SO FUN to finally write Penny and Virg’s first kiss.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Now Without a Meaning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but for Penelope and Virgil, it brings out their insecurities. </p><p>A whole lot of yearning, some slashed tires, and magazines.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Virgil scrubbed his hands through his hair. Tugged and mussed his brown locks and still the answer wouldn’t come to him. He had sketched Monte Carlo’s oceanfront on his canvas, but he didn’t know how to proceed with choosing the colors. He wanted to capture that night with the accuracy of a photograph. When he shut his eyes, only Penelope stood out to him with such clarity: the sweep of her cape, the curl of her hair, the softness of her lips. <em>Until next time.</em> But he was just trying to paint a landscape.</p><p>After delivering <em>A New Dawn</em> to Reginald, the man had the audacity to demand more paintings—and fast. Virgil couldn’t be sure if it was what the buyer wanted, or just Reginald’s way, but he felt compelled to keep up. After all, he had an active buyer. Wasn’t that what every artist wanted?</p><p>His mind gravitated back to that night on the <em>Seaduction</em>. After he had returned to the island following the mission (with Gordon saving the day, albeit a little too trigger-happy with the stun-gas), Virgil hadn’t been able to sleep. He had sketched all night, attempting to capture Penelope’s blue-heated gaze. He’d drawn her face nestled in the fur of her collar, standing on the deck under the lights. He played with the shadows dripping down her cape. He peeled back her cool Creighton-Ward mask as his sketches grew more confident.</p><p>When he drew the curve of her mouth, his cheeks felt hot. He knew those lips now. She’d told him: <em>until next time</em>. What did she mean by that? Did she want to kiss him again, or had she just been polite? The answer eluded him. He woke up every morning since, sweat-soaked and feverish with longing. He couldn’t remember his dreams but he was sure Penelope was in them.</p><p>The kiss had been nothing short of magical to <em>him</em>, but he couldn’t be sure what she had been thinking. Penelope had been quiet, so very quiet, and Virgil had never kissed a woman like that before.</p><p>What if he’d taken it too slow for her? What if he touched her too much, or not enough? <em>He’d</em> been the one moaning, while she simply directed him where to put his hands.</p><p>Virgil, standing in front on his Monte Carlo canvas, grimaced. He hated being unsure of himself. He had no use for self-doubt, not when he had to be a pillar of strength for his brothers.</p><p>“Morning, Virgil,” John said from behind him, too chipper for the hour. But then John sounded like he knew the secret to long battery life. During his shifts on Thunderbird 5, he seemed to always be awake, on alert for emergencies that paid no heed to the human time clock. And unlike Alan, who made it known when he was cranky, John never seemed to give way to fatigue.</p><p>Virgil set down his pencil and wiped his hands on his smock. He studied his brother in the orange-pink light of sunrise. John was already dressed in slacks and a thick sweater, his curl perfectly styled to brush his forehead. If he had been expecting to go anywhere today—like, say, a rescue—he’d probably be disappointed. Jeff rarely let him go. “What are you doing up this early?”</p><p>John shrugged, holding a mug of decaf tea in his hands. Decaf. What the hell did his brother run on? Stardust? “You don’t get sunrises and sunsets in space,” he said, his voice soft. “Wouldn’t want to miss my first one of the month.”</p><p>Four weeks. Four weeks of Alan in Thunderbird 5 and John grounded. Even though they technically served the same length of time in the satellite, John always seemed to have a harder time acclimating to his return to Earth than Alan. Virgil hated that. He wanted John to be comfortable. He knew his brothers felt the same way, but sometimes it was hard even for Scott to reach John when he drifted off, lost in some astrophysics theory or even just a good novel.</p><p>However, John seemed present this morning, his dark blue eyes sweeping over the canvas with curiosity. “It’s a shame Brains had no solution for our problem,” he said, lowering his voice in case anyone else turned up. “You sure you don’t want to let Alan in on the secret?”</p><p>“And leave negotiating the sales to <em>him</em>?” Virgil scoffed. “He’d lose his temper, and Reginald would lose his, and then I’d have to find a new agent.”</p><p>“So you’re saying I do a good job,” John said, smiling.</p><p>“You ask for too much,” Virgil said, feeling his skin heat again. He didn’t think he was as talented as John thought. At least, not enough to warrant the jump between the price Virgil asked for and the number John gave Reginald on the phone calls.</p><p>“Not anymore than you deserve,” John said. He adjusted his grip on the mug and took a sip. “Think we’ll be okay without the phone calls for the month?”</p><p>Virgil frowned. “Hopefully. Reginald and the buyer didn’t object to it.”</p><p>Before John’s shift ended, they’d had a conversation with Reginald about how the next four weeks were going to go. Instead of staying in contact through phone calls, Virgil would just mail each finished painting to Reginald’s gallery with the asking price attached. No negotiations. The buyer could decide whether she wanted the painting for that price, or not, and if so, then the sale would go through without verbal confirmation on their side. The check in the mail would tell him what he needed to know. It was safer this way. No chance of his family finding out.</p><p>If Virgil was honest, he wouldn’t miss listening in on those phone calls. It made him nervous to hear John and Reginald haggle. The buyer herself also had to be on the line, though he never heard a sound from her. The secrecy ate at him sometimes. Yet, her identity wasn’t any of his business. Whoever the buyer was, she liked his art, and he should be satisfied with that.</p><p>John looked at the canvas again. “How is this new one coming along?”</p><p>“It’s not.” Virgil mussed his hair again, his jaw tight. “I can’t get the colors right. I keep mixing them but they just don’t... they’re not accurate. I’m pulling it from memory but my memory is flawed.” He pointed at the book he’d taken from his father’s library, with a photo of the oceanfront. “Black and white isn’t helping. I wish we had a color photo in the library. That would make me feel better.”</p><p>John seemed to consider the paints chaotically swirling into each other on Virgil’s wooden palette before he answered. “Those beautiful images of nebulas the space agencies release aren’t accurate either.”</p><p>Virgil was about to pick up his brush, but he paused. “What do you mean?”</p><p>“Gordon would liken them to lost underwater kingdoms,” John said, his voice dreamlike. He plucked the string on his teabag. “Nebulas are long-dead systems. They’re ruins we can’t reach yet, begging us to explore them. For now, all we can do is take photos and study those. Color manipulation helps us find the answers.”</p><p>Virgil hoped he could follow whatever point John was trying to make.</p><p>“We add colors,” John whispered, as if he were playing with these photos himself—<em>and who was to say he wasn’t, in his spare</em> <em>time in space?</em>— “to enhance the patterns we see, to study parts of the whole. If we didn’t play with color, the answers would stay hidden in the shadows. Space is a dark place. Dark and lonely.”</p><p>“Sure it is,” Virgil said, unsure of whether he should put his hand on John’s shoulder, or just let him continue.</p><p>“Did you know the sun gives off green light?” John said, still toying with his teabag. He seemed to lose himself in the surface of his tea. “The human eye can’t see the green because it shines alongside other colors. Therefore, the sun looks white to us when we try to look at it head-on.”</p><p>Virgil sighed. Physically, John was standing in the lounge, bathed in sunrise, staring into the void of his mug. But which far-flung corner of the galaxy did John’s mind drift to now, and what did it have to do with Virgil’s painting?</p><p>Then, like a rubber band snapping, John came back. He looked up, his eyes wide, and shook his head. “My point,” he said, at normal volume, “is that color is subjective. There’s no such thing as accurate. You should focus instead on choosing colors that reveal something.”</p><p>“Reveal what?” Virgil looked down at his palette.</p><p>“How you felt that night, when you were in Monte Carlo,” John said. He took a long sip of tea. “It was beautiful, wasn’t it? I’ve never been.”</p><p>More than a few rescues had led International Rescue to Monte Carlo, but John hadn’t been part of any of them. Virgil sighed. “It’s not that... you’re not missing anything. Monte Carlo can’t compare to a nebula.”</p><p>John laughed, a soft, sad sound. “Still, you might want to try dipping in here,” he said, pointing to his heart, “rather than using books for this one.”</p><p>Virgil nodded. John was right. Penelope sat at the very center of his memory that night, leaving everything else in the peripheral. He wasn’t ready to translate his first kiss with Penelope into paint. But maybe... maybe he could capture the excitement he had felt watching her strut down the runway, the splendor of the atmosphere, the possibility of something in the air. Before he knew it, he reached for his brush. Mixed his black paint with the dark blue and added drops of white, seeking out the perfect nighttime shade that spoke to him somewhere deep in his chest.</p><p>“Can I stay?” John asked, nudging against his focus.</p><p>“Of course,” Virgil replied, not looking up from his palette. He heard John’s footsteps and the sound of a chair creaking under John’s weight. Then he was lost in his paints and the night on the oceanfront. The colors unfolded before him, brushstroke after brushstroke.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The Halloween charity auction held no deadly danger. Just another one of her duties as a Creighton-Ward. Penelope bid on a vase of indeterminate age for a ridiculous amount of money and won. The vase itself was hardly worth thinking about; she’d have Parker put the vase in one of the rooms included in her stately home tour, just in case anyone read about her acquisition in the morning papers and wanted to see it for themselves.</p><p>The auction lasted no more than an hour, with all proceeds going towards the renovation of a London children’s hospital. Penelope would have just donated the money without getting a vase for her trouble, but she had to fall in line with her peerage: donations had to be made publicly and with much fanfare.</p><p>“How tiresome,” she murmured, swirling her glass of wine at the table.</p><p>Sir Jeremy Hodge was her companion for the evening, impeccably dressed in a black suit. He had a full head of silver hair, but his mustache was a darker shade of gray. He polished off his first glass of wine quite fast and thumped the table with his fist when the auction next item had to be carried onstage by three men. “A bloody statue of a <em>shepherdess</em>?” he asked. “Now who here needs another one of those? Don’t we all already have one on our estates?”</p><p>Penelope pressed her lips together to smother her laugh. “You haven’t made your donation yet, Sir Jeremy. Maybe you’re the one who needs her in your garden.”</p><p>“Dash it all, you have a point,” Sir Jeremy said.</p><p>Penelope watched, amused, as Sir Jeremy won himself a rather voluptuous stone shepherdess. No one else had bothered going to war with him for it, so for the sake of the children, Sir Jeremy bid against himself just to raise the price.</p><p>“That was valiant of you, Sir Jeremy,” Penelope said. “I’m sure you’ll find a place for it.”</p><p>Sir Jeremy sighed and flagged down their waiter for more wine. “The price we pay to do a little good in this country.”</p><p>Sir Jeremy was one of Penelope’s dear friends, and one of the few people Jeff Tracy trusted to help keep International Rescue running. Sir Jeremy procured components that Brains needed to create and improve the machinery the boys used for rescues. He didn’t know everything Penelope did, what with Brains being Sir Jeremy’s point of contact, but it made Penelope feel more relaxed in Sir Jeremy’s company. Plus, the man was hilarious.</p><p>“Let’s talk about your costume,” Sir Jeremy said. “A much more enjoyable topic.”</p><p>“That’s hardly fair when you didn’t come in a costume yourself,” Penelope said.</p><p>“They should have written that detail in larger print on the invitation,” Sir Jeremy said. “Now tell me, what made you dress up like a painter’s palette?”</p><p>Penelope felt her skin heat. She didn’t know why the question flustered her. Sir Jeremy would not be the only person tonight to comment on her choice of costume. In her mind, there had been no other option. Not with her head swirling with thoughts of Virgil and the new painting of Monte Carlo hanging in her mansion.</p><p>Lemaire had designed her outfit for tonight with all the skill and creativity she had expected when she commissioned him. The costume was comprised of black slacks, a halter top with a stiff round skirt designed to look like a painter’s palette with silk roses of various colors sewn in to represent pools of paint. An exaggerated black bow tie at her throat and a beret punctured with paintbrushes finished the look.</p><p>Penelope rubbed her bare arms, thankful to be indoors with the heating running at full blast. “I’ve grown tired of dressing up as famous figures,” she said, not quite a lie, but not answering the question. “I wanted to try something new.”</p><p>It wasn’t an answer Dianne would have accepted. Penelope would have told her the truth:<em> I can’t stop thinking about Virgil’s</em> <em>kiss</em>.</p><p>The pressure of his soft lips haunted her, making her feel hot and foggy-brained. She wanted more, but wasn’t sure if that was possible. Did Virgil want to kiss her again? She had gracelessly cut him off before he could tell her what he’d thought. Duty called, of course, with Gordon and Parker needing backup. But an old worry nagged at her. What if... what if she hadn’t been demonstrative enough? What he thought she hadn’t liked it?</p><p>“Excuse me, Sir Jeremy,” she said, pulling back her chair. “I need to visit the ladies room.”</p><p>“Of course, of course, dear girl,” Sir Jeremy said. “Shall I order us dinner?”</p><p>She smiled. “I’ll leave it to you.”</p><p>Penelope stretched her legs as she walked through the room clustered with tables full of her peerage. She knew their faces, what families they belonged to, and how much money they either hoarded or spent like water. Events like this gave her a chance to touch the pulse of her country and make sure she could still feel it under her fingers. The more information she had, the better agent she was for International Rescue. She could not cross such a room without garnering attention.</p><p>Women dripping in jewels clasped hands with her. Men ran their eyes up and down her figure, even as they politely greeted her. Through it all, Penelope’s mask stayed firmly glued on. Her lips were serenely smiling. Her voice was cool and clear. The paintbrushes in her beret clattered as she dipped her head or nodded. The conversations she entered and left blurred. They all sounded the same, and very little secrets came out. Nothing new to uncover.</p><p>After peeling herself away from one of the Duchess’s friends, Penelope ducked behind a pillar to catch her breath. She’d never make it to the ladies room at this rate. Her dinner would grow cold. But then she heard her name. She peeked around the pillar and her heart stuttered.</p><p>Surrounded by a gaggle of young socialites, Harry Hickinbottom held court. In his mid-twenties like Penelope, the man attracted attention effortlessly. He had perfect white teeth, a even tan, blue eyes, and a full head of blonde hair rakishly mussed. He’d worn a caveman costume, carrying a club he tapped against his thigh while he talked. He was a shameless flirt.</p><p>Once upon a time Penelope had chosen to dally with him. He’d been the last in a string of handsome boys with roaming hands. That was back before the Bureau, when she was bored and in desperate need of something to distract her from her aimlessness. She had snuck off with him during the endless procession of parties so they could press their bodies together in the shadows. She remembered the walls she’d been shoved against, the guests rooms they left rumpled with the bedsheets pulled and strewn across the floor.</p><p>Harry had been exciting for the few months they’d been together, until he tired of her body and she tired of his mind. Then an opportunity to join FAB came along, giving her what she’d really craved: not sex, but danger, and a chance to make a real impact in the world. Because Penelope had been the one to break things off, he hadn’t taken their parting kindly.</p><p>“Did you see what she’s wearing? How indelicate. How tasteless.” Harry said, beaming his white teeth at the twittering girls. “You all outshine Lady Penelope tonight.”</p><p>Penelope pressed herself up against the pillar, jaw tight. <em>Of all the ridiculous comments!</em> Must he still act like a wounded lover with her? Years had passed. Penelope hadn’t taken any lovers after him, but he had certainly continued plucking girls from parties.</p><p>“Oh come now, Harry,” said one of his friends, joining the group with a fresh drink in his hand. “That costume is spectacular.”</p><p>Harry sniffed. He thumped his club harder against his thigh. “Now why would you say that?”</p><p>“Well, for one, you can see a lot of her in that costume,” his friend purred.</p><p>Penelope frowned. She knew she was one of the few women tonight baring her arms and collarbone and a little shoulder blade in October, but her costume, she had thought, was still pretty tame. She wore slacks, after all.</p><p>“It’s all an act,” Harry said. The group leaned in closer, knowing a juicy statement when they heard it. “She shows a little skin here and there, tosses her hair, gives you that smile. But when you get her alone...” his smile was nasty. “She’s a cold, dead fish in your arms.”</p><p>The ladies gasped. His friend, who’d been about to drink, lowered his glass to laugh.</p><p>Penelope leaned her head back against the pillar. Her chest heaved as she struggled to breathe. How dare he? How dare he say such things about her in public? Her eyes burned but she couldn’t rub them without smearing her makeup. Harry’s words cut her deep. Because maybe, maybe they were <em>true</em>. He wasn’t the first man she’d bedded before FAB, but the other men had also found her... lacking. She wouldn’t make enough noise for their tastes and their egos bruised. By the time she’d reached Harry, though, she wondered if she really was the one with the problem.</p><p>Sex had been pleasant, sweaty, fun—an interesting way to pass the time when the world felt blasé and she had a handsome boy at her disposal. Her friends did the same, sneaking off into dark corners between songs and meals. But her friends seemed to enjoy it more than she had. Some girls even gained proposals from the affairs.</p><p><em>Louder, love. Make some noise, no one knows we’re here. Do you even like this? No, I’m not slowing down. I can’t wait any longer.</em> Boy after boy, the comments were the same. So she stopped asking for what she thought she might like. Because even if she <em>did</em> like it, her partners didn’t have the patience for it, and she didn’t react strongly enough anyway for them to do it again.</p><p>Sometimes she wondered if she’d have been different had she not been raised by her parents. They taught her to walk on her toes, silent and unobserved. Her voice had to stay soft, whisper-like, no matter the occasion. She was a Creighton-Ward and had a responsibility to be an unshakeable example of perfection for her peerage. Penelope could not shake those lessons loose. Besides, she had a lot to thank her parents for. Without those skills, she wouldn’t have become the successful agent she was. If only the cost hadn’t been so high in other areas.</p><p>Harry’s followers laughed, astonished and scandalized by his slander. But they loved it. They gathered closer to him, as if to catch his words as they tumbled out of his mouth.</p><p>Parker, dressed as a waiter, sauntered over to her with a tray full of wine-filled glasses. His eyes shot daggers at Harry. Seemed he’d heard it all. “Foul creature, that one is,” he muttered, offering her a choice from the tray. “Want me to slash ‘is tires, m’lady?”</p><p>Normally, Penelope would say no. She didn’t like encouraging actions of him from his unsavory past. But tonight? Tonight she’d been cut too deeply. And with Virgil on her mind, worried about where they were going and if she’d only disappoint him too, she desperately needed crude satisfaction. Her lips lifted into a smile as she took the nearest glass of red wine. “Yes, Parker.”</p><p>“Yes?” He blinked.</p><p>“But do be discreet,” she whispered. “We wouldn’t want to cause a scene.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Virgil painted like a machine, a new canvas propped up on the easel every few days. His smock had gotten more stains; he didn’t have enough time to keep up with washing it after each painting session thanks to the rescue missions. He was always just a few minutes behind Scott, unsnapping the buttons in a flurry as he raced for the rocket painting that would send him careening down a chute to his bird.</p><p>John had adhered to his side during the first two weeks of his month at home. He pulled up a chair close to Virgil, looking up from whatever novel he’d picked from his stash to check on Virgil’s progress. The attention was new for both of them. Usually when John was home, he didn’t seem to quite know what to do with himself. His pursuits were solitary, resulting in him holing up in the library—out of sight and sadly, sometimes out of mind when the rest of the villa buzzed with activity. On his side, Virgil was used to being left alone while he painted, even if he was physically right in the middle of everything in the lounge. But John watched him, and asked questions in his dreamy, far-reaching way, and Virgil tried to answer.</p><p>“I’m going on a feeling,” he explained, when his newest painting morphed into the abstract. He’d chosen vibrant green as his base and drips and splatters of pinks and reds flicked on the canvas. He wasn’t sure what he was going for, but it felt like Penelope. Penelope in that bathrobe-like Lemaire outfit, with that stripe of skin down her chest he wanted to trace. He made no such line on his canvas, but he thought about it.</p><p>John smoothed down the page of his novel with his palm. He cocked his head. “What feeling?”</p><p>Virgil wouldn’t dare say. He trusted John with the secret of selling his paintings. But telling him—or anyone—how he felt about Penelope? Not gonna happen. So he chewed on his lip and tried to make sense of a nonsensical painting. “I was thinking of a garden. With roses. We don’t have anything like that here.”</p><p>John studied the painting. Then made a soft noise in his throat. “I can see it.”</p><p><em>Could he?</em> Virgil studied his own painting. He couldn’t quite tell himself.</p><p>The lounge filled up as the morning went on. Jeff took his place at his desk, buried deep in company paperwork. Gordon and Scott took up a game of chess that seemed to last for hours; Gordon took too long to make a move, but Scott was used to it; he’d pick up a magazine while he waited.</p><p>Reading was a regular pastime in the Tracy household. Not always thick novels like John, but magazines were plentiful. They were usually the newest issues too, flown in like clockwork so International Rescue could stay connected to the rest of the world. Tin-Tin settled into a chair, crossing her legs and opening the magazine on her lap.</p><p>“Say, Virgil, do you feel like taking a break? Playing us a tune?” Scott asked while Gordon hovered over the board. “Feels like it’s been ages since we heard you play.”</p><p>Virgil frowned. He wanted to keep painting. He needed to get this one finished and out the door as soon as possible. But he’d forgotten how much he used to play before this secret project of his cropped up. Maybe Scott had picked up on that. He didn’t want his brother to think anything was out of place in their microcosm. “Sure, Scott. I need to stretch my fingers.”</p><p>Dunking his brush in the water cup, Virgil decided that it wouldn’t be so bad to play something. Maybe he’d be inspired for his next painting. He took off his smock and beret and walked over to the piano. His hands knew what to do. Music drifted around him as he played, fingers dancing on the keys. He closed his eyes. Played from touch-memory.</p><p>His mother had been a talented pianist, and Virgil had gotten that talent from her, though it had been less upsetting to Dad than the art. After all, Jeff had paid for all the boys to have music lessons growing up, seeing the value in them exercising their minds through sound. Still, as they all got older, his brothers stopped playing. Only Virgil played with any regularity now.</p><p>Tin-Tin made a soft exclamation over the pages of her magazine. “Listen to this. Lady Penelope was part of a cycling charity this past weekend. A two-day event in London.”</p><p>Virgil missed a key. Scott’s head snapped up, his eyes locked on his brother. Virgil shrugged, looked down at the keys. His cheeks felt hot.</p><p>Tin-Tin’s eyes flitted through the article. “Looks like she chose the beginner’s route. 25km. The proceeds went toward heart disease research and prevention.”</p><p>Virgil continued playing, but softer. His fingers lightly touched the keys, ghostlike, as he waited for Tin-Tin to read more.</p><p>“‘Each participant took home a momento and a certificate upon completing their route. Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward was seen leading the pack, riding a Schwinn Perla Beach Cruiser Bike in pink. She inspired her fellow cyclists to enjoy the ride. As the day worn on, she rode alongside the younger cyclists and encouraged them to cross the finish line.’”</p><p>Virgil’s lips curled. He could picture her doing that. Perhaps not as warmly as the article said, because Penelope usually encouraged with her chin lifted and her eyebrows raised. She just expected you to do your best, always—and that kind of confidence was infectious.</p><p>Grandma Tracy entered the room just as Tin-Tin read that paragraph. She wheeled in a tray of sandwiches that she and Kyrano must have been made for lunch. Even though the weather on the island hadn’t cooled down much, Grandma started wearing her heavier dresses around the villa.</p><p>Grandma wiped her hands on her apron. “Don’t you think that article is a little <em>too</em> creative? Lady Penelope, inspiring children? Well, I can’t believe it.”</p><p>Jeff laughed from his desk. “Easy, Mother. We all know Penny is capable of whatever she puts her mind to. It’s part of her job.”</p><p>Virgil played even softer, straining to hear the conversation over his playing.</p><p>“All I’m saying is that she could use some practice. Preferably somewhere less frigid than England,” Grandma said.</p><p>Virgil didn’t lose the rhythm of the tune, but he felt his grandmother’s criticism like a punch to the gut. Grandma wasn’t being fair.</p><p>Scott, still waiting for Gordon to make a move, looked at Grandma. “Are you still sore about not getting that invitation to the mansion?”</p><p>“Me? Sore?” Grandma plated a sandwich and handed it over to Scott. “What would <em>I</em> care about seeing her home? It doesn’t bother me at all.”</p><p>Virgil grimaced. The last time Penelope had visited the island had been... a disaster. There was no other way to put it. They had all behaved badly. This was back when International Rescue only had a few missions under its belt. Penelope and Parker had come to the island on their second visit with the intention of forming stronger working bonds.</p><p>Instead, he and his brothers had wound Penelope up, when all she had wanted was to join them on a mission. Parker and Kyrano almost threw hands after several heated arguments. Shame flooded him whenever Virgil remembered laughing at her when she’d been scared of seeing a mouse—a mouse they’d never found in Thunderbird 2. But still. He’d been rude to her. They all had. And probably because of that, Penelope had made some missteps too, resulting in offending their grandmother.</p><p>Penelope hadn’t visited the island since, except at Christmas, which hardly counted.</p><p>Tin-Tin sighed and shut the magazine. She got up to toss it in the recycling pile they had for their thumbed-through magazines.</p><p>Panic rushed up his spine. He stopped playing abruptly and stood. “Wait,” he said, his voice too sharp.</p><p>Everyone stared at him.</p><p>“I didn’t get to read it,” he said, swallowing thickly. He felt transparent. Like everyone in the room could see through to his organs, which were Penelope Creighton-Pink.</p><p>Tin-Tin smiled and handed him the magazine. “No worries, Virgil. It’s all yours.”</p><p>Virgil thanked her and looked at the cover. There she was, just as the article said, cycling down a London street with a bevy of cyclists trailing behind her. Everyone smiling. Well, except Penelope. Her lips were curved, her eyes crinkled in delight, but subdued as she usually was compared to the joy lighting the faces behind her. He touched his finger to her printed cheek.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Penelope knew better than to touch a painting, but it didn’t stop her from standing as close as she could to it. Her newest acquisition was called <em>In the Garden</em>. Aptly named, she thought, considering it helped her guess what the splashes of color on the canvas meant. The painting was abstract, but not the same way <em>Victory</em> was: rich greens in the background mingled with flicks and spots of pinks and reds. Like a rose garden captured by an unfocused camera lens.</p><p>As far she remembered, Virgil had never spent a significant amount of time in the Creighton-Ward garden. She had roses. Plenty of them. Tracy Island did not. She could not trace his inspiration for this one. “Don’t be a fool,” she whispered to herself, lifting the cup and saucer she held. “Not every painting is about you.”</p><p>She took a long sip of her tea. She’d asked Parker to brew an herbal blend of pink rose petals and mint. The tea was hot enough to burn her tongue. The cup didn’t clink or wobble as she turned to admire her little gallery.</p><p>The room was coming along. She had replaced the curtains framing the windows to something more modern, an emerald-green, tulle-like fabric that caught what light there was and held it warm within its folds. Victory hung proudly over the fireplace. <em>A New Dawn</em> and <em>Night in Monte Carlo</em> had been placed next to each other, like day and night, in the hexagon room.</p><p>She still had plenty of wall space left for more of Virgil’s paintings. She’d hang them up to the ceiling if she had to. A veritable army of his paintings, all of them for her. Not that he knew that. He thought he was painting for a stranger.</p><p>“What will he paint next?” she wondered aloud, moving to the center of the room where her new chaise lounge sat. The chaise lounge had been upholstered in faux sheepskin. She slipped out of her shoes and laid down on the chaise lounge, resting the cup and saucer on her stomach. The sheepskin felt like candy floss, soft and ticklish. An extravagance her parents would never had bought for themselves, committed as they had been to preserving the furnishings that had been in the family for generations.</p><p>Didn’t she deserve to have one room for herself? Penelope wiggled into the sheepskin and smiled. Yes, she did. And what had she done with her one room? Filled it with Virgil’s art.</p><p>She drank her tea and admired the paintings. The clock on the fireplace mantle ticked along, marking the time. She lost herself in Virgil’s brushstrokes. In his use of color and light and space. She didn’t think she’d ever get bored of looking at these paintings.</p><p>How long had it been since they last saw each other? Penelope lifted the teacup to her lips. Three weeks. Just about. Since their kiss, Virgil had created and sold two more paintings. He was working fast.</p><p>“And silently,” Penelope muttered. She knew why. John was home for four weeks and he had been the one negotiating on the phone calls. Virgil didn’t talk much on those phone calls, leaving everything to John, but sometimes she heard his voice and it set her heart pounding. Usually he’d speak up at the end of each call, to assure Reginald that he was working on a new painting. Penelope lived for that part of the calls. But the month-long silence was getting to her.</p><p>Penelope’s path didn’t cross with the Tracy’s all that often. When was the last time she spent time with the boys, just for fun? Her mind took her back to the Anderbad mission, where they’d ended up in Paris. She and Sir Jeremy picked the same cafe at Hotel Atalante they had started with, joined by Alan and Tin-Tin for a night of dancing and fireworks.</p><p>Virgil and Gordon should have been with them, but Gordon had insisted on seeing the Folies. Penelope remembered feeling sore about them abandoning her—she didn’t know why she’d taken it so personally then. As the fireworks popped and sparked over their heads, she felt the loss of Virgil’s presence.</p><p>“Does the fire need stokin’, m’lady?” Parker asked, popping his head into the room.</p><p>Penelope looked over at the fireplace. The flames crackled merrily. She still felt cold, as she usually did her old stately home, but Parker’s question inspired her. She sat up. “Wouldn’t it be nice to go somewhere warm for a few days, Parker? A holiday?”</p><p>Parker blinked. “A ‘oliday would be swell, m’lady. Where to?”</p><p>“Tracy Island,” she said.</p><p>Parker dipped his head. “Cor, that would be somethin’. We ‘aven’t been back in ages.”</p><p>Penelope frowned. Memories of her last visit flooded her: how useless she had felt, still new to the organization and eager to tag along on a mission. And how the boys teased her back then! She’d made a mess of things with her attitude. She wondered if Grandma Tracy was still mad at her.</p><p>“Nevermind that, Parker,” she said, as much for herself as for him. “I’ll ask Jeff if he has the guest rooms available. As you said, it’s been too long, indeed.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This chapter was supposed to be all about the post-kiss yearning, but then it kind of ballooned into character moments that ended up being a lot of fun to write. </p><p>Also, Harry wearing a caveman costume is a nod to Troy Tempest from Stingray, in that episode where he was trying to find a unique costume to impress everyone haha.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. ‘Cause I’m On My Back, On My Back Again</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which Penelope has her vacation on Tracy Island, where she catches Virgil in his painting smock, comes face to face with a mouse, and bonds with Grandma Tracy. </p><p>Oh. And she ravishes Virgil on the beach. </p><p>(NOTE: if you’re not here for the steamy parts, you’ll want to skip the third scene on the beach).</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Virgil had the lounge to himself. He hummed under his breath as he dipped his brush in the water glass. He’d gotten into the habit of tilting his hips just enough to see around the edge of his canvas, stealing glances at his new subject. This time he painted a still life. He’d set the scene himself, borrowing Grandma’s wooden pedestal end table because he thought the pie crust frame was a flattering surface for anything he chose to paint. A bowl of fruit would have been too boring, though. He’d grown out of painting those years ago. Placed precisely in the middle of a table was a pink tea set the Tracys had never used.</p><p>The tea set was too intimidating for a bunch of men to casually decide to have their drinks in. Even Tin-Tin, who often pushed them out of their comfort zones, was afraid to shatter a saucer. Virgil’s hands had trembled when he’d reached into the kitchen cabinet to take the set out piece by piece. The way he had arranged it on the table was that the tea pot was the sun, placed in the center, while the teacups and saucers, sugar bowl, and creamer circled it like planets. He was spending too much time with John, thinking like that.</p><p>Still feeling like a little boy playing with a forbidden toy, Virgil had only filled the front teacup with one of John’s decaf teabags. He’d taken the bag out before sketching that part, of course, and wanted to capture the steam wafting from the gold rim.</p><p>He lost himself in the brushstrokes. Followed the curve of the teacup to the very edge of the handle, where the pink faded into white. He’d return later to the inside of the teacup to capture the pattern that looked to him like a snowstorm of roses.</p><p>He heard footsteps behind him. The only other person who’d be awake as early as him on a lazy weekday would be John. He smiled at his canvas and asked, “What do you think, John?”</p><p>A soft, whispery voice answered him. “Royal Albert. Rose Confetti, if I’m not mistaken, a vintage 2021 design in keeping with the expected style.Fine bone china. Gold rim. Those lovely florals. Yes, I do think I made the right choice when I picked this set out.”</p><p>Virgil sucked in his breath. He was hallucinating. The coffee he’d made himself this morning was too strong. Or maybe Gordon had spiked it with something. There was no way Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward was talking to him. But when he turned around, she was most definitely standing there.</p><p>She looked as relaxed as he could imagine her being for an island visit. She wore white slacks and a black-and-white striped shirt with sleeves ending at her elbows. Her honey-colored hair, wind-blown from her journey over, had been held back only with a silk headband. Her perfectly-manicured nails matched the pink of the tea set. So did her lipstick, come to think of it.</p><p>Virgil stared. Swallowed thickly. “You’re... you’re not John.”</p><p>Her lips twitched. “No, I daresay I’m not.”</p><p>He scratched his jaw, finding it rough under his fingers. Oh god. He forgot to shave.</p><p>Penelope’s gaze swept over him. Her smile widened. “Do you always wear this outfit when you paint?”</p><p>If Virgil had been a blusher, he’d be beet-red now. Painting wasn’t something he worried about dressing up for since he only painted on the island these days. He’d forgotten how ridiculous the smock and beret looked, like he was wearing a costume of a long-dead artist.</p><p>He coughed and ran his hands over his smock, feeling the bumps of the old paint stains on it. “It’s just...” he tried, “it’s always what I wear. Alan and Gordon used to love it when they were kids. They’d call me a regular Braquasso. It was too big then, and the sleeves would fall over my knuckles while I painted.” The smock had been his mother’s and yet it fit him perfectly now.</p><p>Penelope stepped closer, clasping her own wrist loosely. A curl of her hair brushed her cheek. “You look charming, Virgil. Just the way you ought to.”</p><p>“Thank you.” Virgil exhaled and felt the air rush from his lungs. He still felt woefully unprepared for this surprise visit. Where did she come from? Why hadn’t anyone told him? Did anyone else know? The last time Penelope had come to the island, they’d run around like birds with their engines on fire. The villa was too quiet for such a visitor.</p><p>Penelope noticed the tea in the cup. “Is that Russian Caravan in there?”</p><p>Virgil put down his brush in his haste to stop her. “No! No, I mean, it’s nothing you’d want to drink.”</p><p>But Penelope had already picked up the teacup and turned it on her hands, looking for proof of prior lip prints. Finding none, she took a tentative sip. Her nose crinkled like she’d swallowed a pile of salt.</p><p>“I tried to warn you,” he said, mortified but also amused because really, she should know better. This was a house that worshipped coffee.</p><p>“Don’t tell me you heated this in a microwave,” she said, holding the teacup away from her.</p><p>He stayed silent. Of course he had.</p><p>“Virgil.”</p><p>He scratched his jaw again. Looked away from her.</p><p>Penelope sighed. “Oh dear. Good thing I packed a kettle. Really, you should have one by now.” She looked at the pink lipstick she left behind on the cup and made a soft noise. “Let me wipe this off.”</p><p>Virgil grabbed the cup from her and set it back down. “Leave it,” he said. “I’d rather have it in the painting.”</p><p>Penelope raised her eyebrows but did as he asked. Her lipstick was only just a little more vibrant than the teacup’s pink. It stood out the way a secret did: blended in, near invisible, unless you knew where to look.</p><p>Scott sauntered in, hands jammed in his pockets, and his eyes widened when he saw Penelope. “Lady Penelope! Well! I heard muses drop in when you least expect them, but I didn’t think Virgil could summon you out of thin air.”</p><p>Virgil wanted the ground to swallow him up. Where was Alan when you needed him to flip to switch to send you hurtling underground? He expected Penelope to handle Scott’s teasing better, as composed as she always was. But when he stole a glance at her, he was surprised to see her turn as pale as milk.</p><p>“Did you commission him to paint your tea set?” Scott said, flashing his dimples. His cheeks had permanent indents but they were deeper when he grinned.</p><p>Penelope looked unsteady on her feet. She seemed to reach out to grab Virgil’s smock sleeve, but thought better of it. A weak smile rose to her lips. “I believe the tea set was a Christmas gift to all of you. I’d prefer to see you drinking out of the cups.”</p><p>Virgil’s brow furrowed. “You don’t like it?” he asked, confused by her reaction. When they had been alone, she had approved of the still life. Why the change of heart? He knew that the painting wasn’t for her. Like his other paintings, this one would get packed up and shipped to Reginald in a few days. The mysterious buyer would probably purchase this one too. So really, Penelope’s opinion shouldn’t have mattered.</p><p>Her eyes snapped to his. A little color came back to her cheeks. “Oh dear, you misread me. Of course I love the painting. I’m just... feeling tired. From the flight over. Parker hit a few waves with FAB 1 and I think he jostled me too many times.”</p><p>“Then have a seat, Penny,” Jeff said, entering the room with a wad of paperwork under his arm. John trailed in after him. “After all, this is <em>your</em> vacation. You should kick your feet up. Read a magazine. Soak up the warm island air.”</p><p>John walked right up to Penelope and studied her, his mind turning in ways Virgil couldn’t guess. “Are you real?” he asked.</p><p>Penelope laughed. “Why, yes, I’d like to think so.”</p><p>One corner of John’s mouth lifted. “Just wanted to make sure. I’m never here when you are.”</p><p>“That’s right. Alan is on satellite duty,” Jeff said, taking a seat at his desk. “You’re not staying long enough to see Alan this time, are you?”</p><p>She shook her head. “Just a few days, Jeff. To thaw out my bones before it gets even colder at home.”</p><p>“You knew she was coming?” Scott asked Jeff before Virgil had a chance to.</p><p>Jeff shrugged and slid a piece of paper closer to him. He plucked a pen from his desk drawer. “A surprise is a surprise, boys. But someone here has to know what’s going on at all times.”</p><p>Virgil shivered. Jeff’s warning wasn’t lost on him. As their father and leader of International Rescue, it was critical that Jeff knew what his sons were up to. But Virgil didn’t see the harm in keeping the sale of his paintings from his father. On Tracy Island, mail was sacred. With everyone of legal age, Jeff couldn’t snoop through their mail. If he had, Virgil was pretty sure everyone would have packed their bags and left for that breach in privacy. Virgil had his loophole, keeping him safe from discovery, but it still made him jumpy to be hiding anything from his father.</p><p>John, for his part, didn’t look concerned by harboring Virgil’s secret. But then again, John was like soda gone flat. Shake him up and you wouldn’t get even a hiss of fizz when you opened the bottle.</p><p>Jeff sharp gaze fell on Virgil. More specifically, Virgil’s unshaven jaw. “Virgil,” he said gruffly, “go clean yourself up.”</p><p>“Yes, Father,” Virgil said. Grateful that he hadn’t gotten a scolding in front of Penelope for showing his scruff to company, he made a quick exit.</p><p>Retreating to his bedroom, he locked the door and stripped off his smock. The buttons snapped open one by one. He hung the smock up in his closet and put the beret away on a shelf. Then he rolled up his sleeves and entered the adjoining bathroom where he splashed water on his face and scrubbed the paint off his hands.</p><p>He filled the sink with water and patted shaving cream on his face. He didn’t want to cut himself with Penelope here. He didn’t want her to think he rushed for her sake—which he <em>might</em> have, if he didn’t restrain himself. He went slow, sliding the razor in precise, smooth strokes over his skin.</p><p>He couldn’t have been gone for more than twenty minutes. But when Virgil returned to the lounge, Tracy Villa had fully awakened. Scott sat with one hip propped up on Jeff’s desk as he looked over his father’s shoulder. Tin-Tin and Brains poured over a game of chess. John sat in his feet tucked under him, engrossed in a novel with yellowing pages. The kitchen was rather noisy, with clinking glass and Kyrano and Parker’s voices clashing. Grandma was in there with them, probably playing referee. Gordon was nowhere to be found.</p><p>Penelope had chosen to sit on the yellow couch near the portraits. The space next to her was empty. Virgil stood in the entranceway, wondering if it would be too forward of him to sit with her. Usually one of his brothers would have claimed that spot; it happened so often that he was used to not feeling sore about it. His brothers were, in general, more outgoing. They never hesitated to seek out Penelope’s attention. Virgil was used to stepping back. He told himself he didn’t need her smile, her laugh, or her endearments she’d sometimes add to her careful responses. But he was also used to lying to himself.</p><p>“Come on, Virg,” he muttered to himself. One foot in front of the other. He stole a glance at his unfinished painting, the tea now cool in its pink teacup, and crossed the room to Penelope.</p><p>She looked up at him and patted the empty the spot next to her.</p><p>His heart thumped. He sat stiffly, keeping a large gap of space between them. Looking around for a magazine to hide behind, he found nothing within reach. “Do you...” he said, “do you want any music? I could play something.”</p><p>Penelope’s eyes crinkled. “I’m fine, Virgil. Thank you.”</p><p>He nodded. He wanted to talk to her. He could ask about her missions—surely she had other things she did for International Rescue that he didn’t hear about—or maybe one of those charity events. The cycling event he just read about would be a good one; he’d read that article a few times over before putting on his bookshelf in his room. But then she’d know he was reading about her.</p><p>“Lady Penelope!” Gordon yelled, forgetting his indoor voice in his excitement. He looked a little dusty, as if he’d been rooting through the attic again on his own. He held a remote control in his hands and grinned ear to ear. “Look what I found. Your little friend’s come back to say hello!”</p><p>Virgil was confused. What little friend could Penelope have—and what, exactly, did Gordon’s remote control do? He was about the find out.</p><p>The sound of a tiny motor filled the room. Wheels burned rubber on the floor as a small, gray-haired creature rolled into the room and headed straight for Penelope. Virgil squinted. It looked like a...</p><p>“Mouse!” Penelope shrieked, dropping her magazine. As the toy mouse took a sharp turn straight for her feet, Penelope lifted her feet up on the couch, shoes and all, and shoved herself into Virgil’s lap.</p><p>Her arms wrapped around his neck. She pressed her cheek against his—thank god Dad made him shave. Virgil instinctively held her close. The bottom of her left shoe bit into his thigh but he didn’t care. She was trembling and he wanted to make it stop. “Gordon, turn it off,” he said. “You’re scaring her.”</p><p>Gordon’s smile dropped. “Oh, Penelope, I didn’t mean it! I’m <em>sorry</em>. I thought you’d like the mouse.”</p><p>Had Gordon lost his mind? Virgil frowned and pulled Penelope closer. He stroked her back where his hand was caught between her and the back of the couch. “Don’t you remember the atomic station in the Sahara, with the mouse in Thunderbird 2?”</p><p>He’d laughed at Penelope back then, but it hadn’t been about her. He couldn’t believe a <em>mouse</em> had breached Thunderbird 2. Not with the way Brains had designed the bird. Now, he wouldn’t dream of laughing at Penelope about a mouse, real, imagined, or made of nuts and bolts. She felt so soft and warm in his arms. If he hadn’t been surrounded by his family, he would have pulled her flush against him, tangling himself in her.</p><p>Gordon sent the mouse back to him and turned it off. He picked the mouse up and shoved it in his pocket. “Sorry,” he said again, looking as if he’d cry. “Grandma said you’d get a kick out the mouse.”</p><p>Grandma said that? Virgil narrowed his eyes.</p><p>With the mouse out of sight, Penelope peeled her cheek off of his. Her arms unwound and she slid ungracefully from his lap, falling back against the couch’s armrest. “I do apologize,” she said, rather breathless. Her eyes went wide when she saw everyone staring at them. “There’s nothing I fear more than mice.”</p><p>“It’s all right,” Virgil said softly. “Everyone has something they’re scared of. Even the great Lady P.”</p><p>Penelope gave him a fleeting smile and pushed her hair back from her face.</p><p>Scott was the first to break the silence. He didn’t look at Penelope. His gaze snagged Virgil. “At least Penelope had <em>you</em>, Virg. She might have climbed up the wall if you hadn’t been there.”</p><p>Virgil’s breath caught. His heartbeat filled his ears as he looked at his family, trying to read their expressions. Scott’s words had been loaded with meaning—he wouldn’t be surprised if <em>he</em> connected the dots.</p><p>But everyone else? Jeff looked grave behind his desk, fingers steepled. John laid his book down in his lap, mild confusion on his face. Gordon, oblivious, shoved his hand in his pocket as if to keep the mouse from crawling back out. Tin-Tin bit her lip, like she was trying not the smile, and Brains returned to their chess game without any further interest.</p><p>Grandma Tracy entered the lounge from the kitchen, looking pleased. “Lunch is ready,” she said.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Penelope planned to stay a week on Tracy Island. Nothing pressing waited for her back in England, which was a rarity. Why not take advantage of it? Truthfully, the idea of spending more time with Virgil made her heart vibrate in her chest. No more stolen moments. She wouldn’t have to claw her way into Thunderbird 2 to see him.</p><p>Reality was quite different. She should have known better. The mouse debacle had ended up being as close as Penelope got the Virgil that first day. Lunch had smoothed out the wrinkles Gordon had caused with his toy mouse, and the Tracy family returned to their usual behavior patterns—which meant Virgil fused with the wallpaper.</p><p>Penelope had tried to seek him out, but the other brothers demanded her attention and Virgil didn’t fight them for it. He <em>never</em> did, actually. Virgil tinkered with a tune on his piano, sucking in his bottom lip as he played from memory. Penelope stole glances at him as she talked with Brains about adjustments to her compact device, or Tin-Tin about the latest fashions in France.</p><p>“Were you planning on swimming?” Scott asked her while they sat across from each other in the lounge. “The water’s a lot colder than it looks this time of year. You’d do better with the pool.”</p><p>“My dear boy, I wouldn’t pass up on the chance for sand and seashells,” Penelope said, a smile tugging at her lips. “Freezing temperatures can’t put me off.”</p><p>Grandma Tracy, knitting on the couch, snorted.</p><p>Penelope ignored her.</p><p>Scott, perhaps missing the noise, continued on. “Well, when you do go for a swim, you’ll have to let us know. It’s been a long time. I bet Parker packed your most stylish new swimsuits.”</p><p>Virgil made a strangled sound at the piano. He played louder to cover it up.</p><p>“You’d win that bet. I do have new ones. Lemaire even designed one for me and I haven’t gotten to wear it yet,” Penelope said.</p><p>“Looking forward to seeing it,” Scott replied, grinning.</p><p>Penelope let out a silent laugh. Scott was a harmless flirt. He wasn’t very good at it, a fact that surprised her knowing how very much he was like Jeff, but it was fun to spar back and forth with him. Sometimes she thought Scott flirted with her just to get the practice; there was no weight to his words, his smiles always just a little too light to be taken for deep affection. Scott Tracy’s heart was entrenched in International Rescue and his brothers. She wasn’t sure if anyone else could ever breach those walls. Certainly not herself, even though she was part of the team.</p><p>If Alan had been home during her visit, he would have trampled on her heels. Like Scott, he seemed to want something from her, and Penelope’s guess was that he was looking for clues that would help him understand Tin-Tin better—as if all women had some universal code that could be cracked. So Penelope was patient with Alan in the past, joining him and Tin-Tin in tennis matches and other activities where three was a crowd. And she bore it well. The youngest Tracy was rash and emotional and she loved that about him. At the same time, it felt like a vacation to <em>not</em> have him around.</p><p>John was a phantom, popping in and out of rooms just to grab a book. Penelope didn’t know him as well as the other brothers. He sounded so cheerful and competent from his perch in Thunderbird 5, but without his radios to monitor, his feet seemed to float off the ground along with his mind. It was hard for her to see that this was the same Tracy who negotiated for Virgil so tirelessly on the phone. </p><p>Gordon invited her to examine the tide pools with him on the second day of her vacation. She accepted. The sun had beat warmly on her back as she bent over the water, looking for life beneath the depths. Gordon told her everything he could about the sea life occupying the waters around them. Sometimes he had a far-flung look in his eyes like John’s, but always with the ocean. Penelope had caught him once or twice looking at the water as if he could see into infinity, the thread of their conversation forgotten.</p><p>Without Alan around, Tin-Tin was even more of a delight. They acted like schoolgirls, gathering up every fashion magazine in the villa, and debated the charms and failures of the outfits on the pages. Penelope may have been the trained spy, but when they were on rescues together, Tin-Tin had a much easier time squeezing secrets from their targets. She likened it to Tin-Tin being a warmer person, with charm and intelligence that shone in any occasion. They were two very different people, she reminded herself. And tried not to feel lacking.</p><p>With Brains and Jeff, she talked business. They poured over schematics and blueprints, going over anything new that had been adjusted with the birds or any of the machines used for rescue missions. She and Jeff talked late into the night, bathed in the soft breeze rolling off the ocean, about her latest missions and the other agents she checked in with from time to time, on his behalf.</p><p>And through it all, Virgil stayed in the background. He didn’t put up a fight when Scott asked her for a game of tennis, or when Gordon dragged her out to collect seashells. He sat at his piano as if he had been hired to play for hours. He painted, here and there, always wearing that delightfully garish smock. Penelope longed to have him look at her, to put his mouth on her. What if she stood in front of his canvas? Would he run his brush over her skin? Penelope shivered at the delicious thought. But before she could act on any of these idle daydreams, she still had to face Grandma Tracy.</p><p>While the boys were out doing drills with their birds on the third day of her stay, Penelope found Grandma Tracy alone in the kitchen. She was in the middle of preparing dinner. The matriarch of the Tracy family looked quite at home in the kitchen, humming to herself as she chopped vegetables and watched a pot bubble. Grandmama, as Penelope liked to call her, wore light blue blouse with lace at the throat and bib-like embellishments under her apron. Her brown skirt was clinched at the waist and covered her toes. The ensemble was what Lemaire’s historical fashion books called “Victorian.” Grandmama’s face was red from the heat of the kitchen, her hair held back in in a tight bun.</p><p>Penelope knocked on the doorframe. “Can I come in, Grandmama?”</p><p>Grandmama’s blue eyes flashed behind her wire-rimmed glasses. “Only if you help.”</p><p>Penelope tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. The kitchen was foreign to her. She had no idea how to operate within it. Still, Grandmama couldn’t know that. She had to pretend she knew what she was doing, to make a good impression. “What would you have me do?”</p><p>“Chop the onions.”</p><p>Penelope joined her at the granite countertop where a cutting board and a peeled onion waited for her attention. She picked up the knife, comfortable with its weight, though she had no idea how to cut anything else besides human skin in a fight. How did one cut an onion?</p><p>“Knuckles first,” Grandmama snapped. “Brains is a genius but I don’t know if he’s capable of sewing your fingers back on.”</p><p>A bead of sweat slide down her spine as she bent over the onions, curling her knuckles and slowly and clumsily chopping. Onion fumes washed over her. Her eyes began to itch, then sting. “Bloody hell,” she muttered, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. They only burned more. Tears streamed down her face. She couldn’t see well enough to take a chance with her knife. “Oh, I can’t do this. Crying is just so... so tiresome.”</p><p>She heard Grandmama’s exasperated sigh. She took the knife from Penelope. “Your eyes are just irritated from the fumes. It’s not real crying. Now <em>that</em>, I suppose, if something you don’t do often.”</p><p>“Crying?” Penelope said, taking the offered dish towel to wipe her face on.</p><p>“That’s right.”</p><p>Penelope shrugged. “It’s not a Creighton-Ward trait. Crying’s never solved anything.”</p><p>“But it feels good,” Grandmama said with a wry smile.</p><p>Penelope preferred to keep her emotions bottled, thank you. They stayed perfectly secure inside her.</p><p>“So, onions are a fail. <em>I’ll</em> finish them.” Grandmama handed her an electronic thermometer. “Use this to check the temperature of the oil in the pot. We need it to climb to three hundred and seventy-five degrees.”</p><p>Penelope wiped a stray tear from her lashes, grateful that the boys weren’t around to see her. What would Virgil think of her if he knew she couldn’t chop onions? Could <em>he</em> chop onions? Questions piled up in her head as she walked over to the pot on the stove.</p><p>She sniffed and plunked the thermometer into the oil. Steam rose from the pot. The oil smelled cloying. Her grip slipped and the thermometer bumped the bottom of the pot, leaving a black mark. Her brow furrowed. That wasn’t normal, was it? The bottom of the thermometer warped in the heat. “Grandmama?” she asked. “The oil smells like plastic. That can’t be right.”</p><p>Grandmama wiped her hands on her apron and walked over. She peeked in the pot and gasped. “What did you do?”</p><p>“What?” Penelope said with a flash of dread. Didn’t she follow directions?</p><p>Grandmama took the thermometer out of Penelope’s hand. “You didn’t take the cover off!”</p><p>“That was a cover?” Penelope frowned. “You just handed it to me. I thought it was ready to go in.”</p><p>Grandmama looked at Penelope as if she had landed in the flying saucer. “Have you ever seen a thermometer before? They all come with covers, to protect them.”</p><p>Penelope watched, turning red with shame, as Grandmama pulled off the warped cover, revealing the stainless steel stem that should have gone in the boiling pot.</p><p>“Now the cover is ruined,” Grandmama said, “and so is the oil. We need to pull it off the stove and dump it. What a waste.”</p><p>Penelope should have apologized profusely and offered to replace the wasted cooking oil and the ruined thermometer. Or she could have kept up her charade and blamed the mistake on the thermometer’s terrible design—how was she supposed to know it wasn’t all one piece? The design was not intuitive.</p><p>Instead of doing either, a laugh bubbled up in her belly. She clutched her stomach and make a noise like a creaking door before falling into a fit of giggles. Tears sprung up again, and she wiped at them with trembling fingers.</p><p>Grandmama pulled the pot off the hot burner. She seemed too stunned to comment on Penelope’s outburst.</p><p>Penelope covered her face with her hands but bursts of laughter still pushed through. Her stomach muscles felt taxed. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed this hard. “I’m sorry, Grandmama,” she warbled between giggles.</p><p>“Why do you call me that?”</p><p>Penelope caught her breath. She wiped her eyes, looking hard at the woman she’d been sharing this kitchen with. Did those blue eyes look less cold now? “Because you’re a Tracy and you’re family. We’re more to each other than just teammates, are we not?”</p><p>Grandmama softened. “Did you ever know your grandparents?”</p><p>Penelope drew in a deep breath. “No. Not on either side. They passed away before I was born. I grew up hearing stories about them from my parents. And there were the portraits, so I knew what they looked like. When I was a little girl, I used to talk to those paintings as if they were alive, but they always looked so disapproving, glaring down at me from the walls. I have a feeling we wouldn’t have gotten on.”</p><p>Grandmama took Penelope’s hands in hers and squeezed. “We <em>are</em> family, as you said.”</p><p>Penelope looked down at their hands. A strange warmth filled her.</p><p>“I’m just an old woman now. There’s not much I can do for my grandsons besides keep them fed and healthy. If I can guard their hearts, I will do so.”</p><p>Penelope knew a threat when she heard one, however softly delivered. “I would never hurt any of them.”</p><p>“Not on purpose, no.” Grandmama sighed. “But things are changing, aren’t they? You have your eye on one of my grandsons.”</p><p><em>Virgil</em>, she almost said in answer. But Penelope kept her lips pressed closed. Grandmama probably already knew thanks to the toy mouse.</p><p>“I was worried about you. That you were too priggish and starchy to hold one of their hearts,” Grandmama said, steel in her tone. Then her voice thawed. “But then, I’d never heard you laugh before. I didn’t think you were capable of it. I like the way you sound when you laugh. I wish you’d do it more.”</p><p>Penelope swallowed a lump in her throat. She didn’t know what to say. She still felt like the same person. “Priggish” and “starchy” were accurate enough descriptors. She was the product of old money and even older forms of repression and pristine manners—a strange sort of person to entangle with Americans as free and easy as the Tracy’s. But if Grandmama was right, maybe there was hope for her yet. Maybe they really weren’t that strange to each other after all. “Will you be patient with me, Grandmama? I confess, I don’t know what I’m doing.”</p><p>“That’s for sure,” Grandmama said with a sharp laugh. “But you may be underestimating yourself. You know more than you think, if you trust yourself and loosen up a little.”</p><p>Penelope hadn’t meant the kitchen. And neither, perhaps, had Grandmama.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Somewhere between working on his tea set painting and playing the piano like it was the only thing keeping him sane, Virgil felt a tap on his shoulder. Looked up from the keys and saw Penelope standing there with a soft smile. “You promised you’d take me to the beach,” she said, even though he’d promised her nothing.</p><p>He swallowed around the lump in his throat and nodded. Shoved himself off his seat and ran to his room to change. He threw on a pair of swim trunks and a button-down shirt. Then he met her at the stairs leading down from the villa to the beach.</p><p>Penelope had changed too, donning one of those stylish new swimsuits Scott had playfully guessed at. The bikini top hugged her like a bodice, the straps tied in a bow behind her neck. The bottoms were high-cut and patterned all over with paisley. They made her legs look long. His gaze drifted down to her legs as they walked along the sand, away from the villa just far enough so that the palm trees and growth would hide them from any curious brothers with binoculars.</p><p>Virgil felt like he was doing something wrong. He shivered at the thought of being alone with Penelope, a moment stolen right in the thick of a busy Tracy family afternoon. Part of him expected to see Gordon dart across the sand with a frisbee, asking them to join him in a game, or Scott showing up with a bottle of suntan lotion, warning them to rub it in or burn red like lobsters. But no one came. They had the beach to themselves.</p><p>They laid out the beach towel Virgil had brought with him and kept it from blowing away with the weight of their bodies. Penelope laid on her stomach, chin in her hands. She watched the waves crash against the shoreline. Virgil sat facing the water, his legs in a loose pretzel. He wanted to stretch them out, dig his toes in the sand, but he felt tense. Any minute now, their bubble might burst. Spine straight, fists in his lap, he waited for it to be ruined. Guys like him... well, they didn’t get moments like this. Their kiss on the <em>Seaduction</em> had been a fluke, stolen in the heat of the moment. He happened to be there and the night had been enchanting despite the danger. But it couldn’t happen again, could it?</p><p>The wind blew through their hair. Penelope got the worst of it, her blonde locks whipping around her face. A strand caught on her mouth. Virgil reached out to brush it loose. But once he was that close, his hand felt heavy, had to stay where it was. His fingers slid down her cheek, then framed her jaw.</p><p>“This is familiar, isn’t it?” Penelope said, leaning into his hand. Her eyelashes rested on her cheeks as she closed her eyes, as if savoring his touch.</p><p>“Mm-hmm,” was all he could manage. His hand was so large compared to her cheek, her jaw. He stroked her soft skin with the back of his knuckles, then cupped her cheek again. He wasn’t on the beach anymore. He was in that dark, bleak tunnel with the monotrain flying over them.</p><p>Penelope placed her hand over his, holding it here. “Why didn’t you stay for the fireworks?”</p><p>That question brought him back to the present.</p><p>“I always wondered,” she added, her blue eyes catching his. She made it sound like his answer wouldn’t matter, but he knew better.</p><p>The easy answer, the surface answer, would have been the one he’d used on everyone else: that Gordon had wanted to see the Folies, and he wasn’t about to let Gordon go somewhere by himself in Paris. Father would have bitten off his head for not acting like the big brother he was. But that wasn’t the whole truth. “Gordon asked me to see the Folies with him,” he said, “because he could tell I needed to step away. That something had shaken me up. He wanted to distract me.”</p><p>A smile tugged at her lips. “Now what kind of distraction would warrant sneaking off to watch scantily-clad dancers?”</p><p>Virgil felt himself blush. His skin burned. “I can’t remember much about who was performing that night. Gordon could tell you. My mind was somewhere else.”</p><p>“Anderbad?”</p><p>He nodded. His thumb stroked her skin, tracing the dip of her bottom lip. “I touched you,” he said, as if confessing to a crime. “I wasn’t sure if I should have. But you had looked so scared. I’d never seen you like that.”</p><p>“You boys cut it close. I thought that monotrain was going to get me,” she said, in that light, breezy tone that hid so much.</p><p>Virgil knew he had to go further. Had to crack that mask she still held over her face, her voice. “When I touched you in the tunnel,” he murmured, “I didn’t want to let go. And that scared <em>me</em>.”</p><p>There. He said it. The all-consuming feelings he’d felt that night, like being pulled underwater and held down.</p><p>Penelope absorbed his words. Her hand slipped away from his, letting him free.</p><p>The roar of the ocean filled the tense silence between them. Virgil didn’t feel his hand leave her cheek; it curled back into a fist on his lap as confusion took over. Why wasn’t she responding? Had he said the wrong thing?</p><p>“I think Grandmama is beginning to like me,” Penelope said, her eyes flicking to his.</p><p>“Do you?” Oh good, his voice box was working. Why was she talking about Grandma?</p><p>“I tried to help her make lunch yesterday,” she said with a puff of a laugh. Her brow furrowed. “I admit, I never had to learn my way around a kitchen. But I have the utmost respect for anyone who does. My cook, Lilian, is marvelous.”</p><p>Virgil nodded. “That tea you arranged for us was delicious.”</p><p>“I made it for you,” Penelope said, sitting up suddenly. “Not Scott. <em>You</em>.”</p><p>Virgil dug his nails into his palms. Anything to wake him up. Nothing she said made sense to him. He replayed the tea in his head, wandering back those sips of Russian Caravan and the puzzling Battenberg cake.</p><p>Penelope crawled toward him on her knees, until they were close enough to share the same breath. She tugged on his shirt. “I’m showing more skin that you,” she said.</p><p>Virgil unbuttoned his shirt while his mind struggled to catch up. He didn’t understand any of it. Part of him wondered if he was back in his bed, dreaming this.</p><p>He wasn’t shy about his body, but he was conscious of how different he was from his brothers. Following Dad’s regimen, they all had muscles, fit and ready for whatever a rescue threw at them. But Virgil was bigger than his brothers. He and Scott and used to compete in the gym when they were younger, trying to see who had more brawn, and Scott complained about how Virgil had the bone structure that would always get him ahead. When he took off his shirt and shoved it under the towel, where it hopefully wouldn’t blow away, he expected Penelope to study him. To run over hands over his chest. But she didn’t.</p><p>Instead, she sat back on her knees, and her mask cracked. Just a little. Enough to see that she was worried about what she was going to say next.</p><p>“Penelope,” he said, a question.</p><p>“Penny,” she replied. She tucked her hair behind her ears. “The tea, Virgil. Do you remember when I found that smudge of dirt?”</p><p>How could he forget? That strange, tingling sensation of the wet cloth on his skin. He had nearly combusted.</p><p>Her eyes darkened to a deeper blue. “You looked a bit hot under the collar after that. Did I find a sensitive spot?”</p><p>Virgil swallowed. His words, if he had any of the coherent variety, got stuck there.</p><p>“I wonder if it is. Sensitive, I mean.” She did a curious thing. Stuck her thumb in her mouth, wet it with her tongue, and reached for the side of his face. “What if I just touched you there? How long would it take?”</p><p><em>How long would it take for what?</em> Virgil inhaled, curious and tense.</p><p>She rubbed her wet thumb against the skin under his left ear. It felt just like the wet napkin from the tea. A sharp thrill of heat ran down his spine. Still rubbing with her thumb, she leaned into him and pressed a kiss on the other side, under his right ear.</p><p>White-hot. He made an agonized sound. Virgil squeezed his eyes shut. He leaned back on his hand, and the other found purchase on the curve of her hip.</p><p>Penelope sucked his earlobe into her mouth. Then went back to kissing the hollow under his ear. Slow, excruciatingly slow. Her thumb stroked and rubbed patterns under his left ear. She traced the shell of his ear with her other fingers.</p><p>Virgil held on, her hip his only anchor. Sweet, sharp heat crashed over him in waves and pooled in his belly. He’d been surprised at tea with his own sensitivity, but now, it was devastating. He hadn’t known that one small area could tear him apart. It took all of his power to stay sitting up, to not move his own hand to explore her.</p><p>He felt guilty at first, with only his past experience to guide him. <em>He</em> should have been the one kissing her. She was doing everything here, and he was just... enjoying it? That was wrong. The other women he’d been with expected him to do the work. And he had expected it too. But as Penelope dragged her lips over his skin, as her wet thumb traced circles, he could feel how this was affecting <em>her</em>. She trembled under his hand. Her eyelashes fluttered. Her other hand dug into the back of his neck, tugging on his hair.</p><p>Was it enough, just being there for her? She’d only paid attention to his ears, to those soft patches of skin underneath, but she’d struck a live wire. When her tongue stroked the underside of his ear, it was like stepping on the gas in his bird. His hips began to move on their own, small, abortive movements. He moaned and nuzzled the side of her face, her hair. Wherever he could reach.</p><p>“Can I hold you?” she whispered.</p><p>“Yes,” he croaked. His hips bucked again, getting nothing but air. “Please.”</p><p>Her hand left his ear, sliding down his chest, and slipped underneath the waistband of his swim trunks. Her damp thumb traced his length. She wrapped her small hand around him, gently holding him as he pushed into her hand, unable to help himself.</p><p>“Virgil! Penelope!” Gordon’s familiar voice called to them, cutting through the sound of the ocean.</p><p>“Oh dear,” Penelope said, withdrawing her hand from his swim trunks. “Has he seen us?”</p><p>Virgil whimpered at the loss of her hand, but panic quickly took over. He pulled up his trunks and created some space between them. The only real proof of what they had been up to would be his red ears—though sunburn could account for that—and the tent in his trunks. Not as easy to explain away.</p><p>“We don’t want to cause a scene. Into the water,” Penelope said, standing on trembling legs. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes glassy. She held out her hands. He took them. They both ran into the water just as Gordon came into view.</p><p>The chill of the water made Virgil hiss. He slipped under the waves, battered by sea foam, and waited for the cold to take away the signs of what Penelope had done to him. It didn’t work as well as cold showers had in the past. He still felt like he’d been rubbed the wrong way. Like any touch could set him off again.</p><p>Gordon jogged over to them, grinning. “Hey, Virgil, you forgot your wristwatch. The nerve! Dad made me come find you. Dinner is served, and if you don’t hurry up, Scott says he isn’t responsible for finishing off Grandma’s apple pie before you get a slice.”</p><p>“We have a guest,” Virgil yelled back, still hidden up to his shoulders in the waves. “He should know better.”</p><p>“Virgil’s right. I would like a chance to try Grandmama’s apple pie,” Penelope said.</p><p>Gordon put his hands on his hips. “Then get out of the water!”</p><p>“Very well,” Penelope said, leaving the water first. She grabbed the beach towel and Virgil’s shirt. When he came out of the waves, she shoved them at him. “You might want to hold onto these,” she murmured.</p><p>“Thanks,” he said, wrapping the towel around his waist. A flimsy shield, but it worked. If he waddled back to the villa, it only looked as if he was struggling to walk on the sand.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Penelope preferred being in control. All it took was making the first move. That was the magic trick, the way to turn the tables on your enemy. In this case, she never would have touched Virgil the way she wanted if she hadn’t started it herself. Her every action had been calculated, carefully planned and ruminated on over the course of her vacation. But still, when the time came, she had been apprehensive. Would she spook him with her desire? Or, more disappointing, would he take control and turn out like every other man she’d been with before? She hadn’t been sure which scenario she feared more.</p><p>But everything had gone according to plan. Virgil had been waiting for a chance to be alone with her. She created that moment out of careful observation. Found the pockets of time where the other Tracys would likely not disturb them. Dragged him off to the beach where she ravished him.</p><p><em>Ravished</em>. Yes, that was the word for what she’d done.</p><p>Virgil did not have a very good poker face. Yes, he had practice in keeping his face slack, his mouth a firm line of exasperated patience around his brothers, but his eyes couldn’t hide anything. When she’d seen the tell-tale desire burning there in his brown eyes, and the weight of his hand on her cheek, she’d leapt. It paid off. Almost too good to be true.</p><p>All she had wanted on the beach with Virgil was a slow build, excruciatingly curated and brought to a resolution as explosive as a blast from FAB 1’s grilled-mounted machine cannon. Unfortunately, they had been interrupted—a risk Penelope had expected. But oh, before that. The <em>before</em>. She’d never had such fun.</p><p>The sounds Virgil had made sent shivers down her spine. His skin was salty, soft and kissable. Her heart had clattered like a teacup against her rib cage when she reached inside his swim trunks. He’d been so hot, like touching a burning coal. Even then, Virgil hadn’t moved. He hadn’t flipped her onto the sand, turning the tables. He just let her be. It had almost made her want to cry.</p><p>Penelope saw the end of her vacation draw near, only hours away before Parker threw her bags in FAB 1’s trunk and they were off again, back to England and the cold weather waiting for her. On her last morning on the island, she sat on the verandah. Stretched out on a lounge chair, soaking in the sun one last time, sunglasses hiding half her face behind darkened frames.</p><p>She shared the verandah with Virgil, Jeff, Grandmama, Scott, and Tin-Tin, each occupying their own chairs and enjoying the morning. Penelope stole a glance at Virgil. He was wearing the clothes she’d seen him in the most: khaki pants, long-sleeved forest green shirt with a brown waist coat. Sunglasses hid his eyes as well, but she noticed the pinch of his shoulders, his tight grip on the handrests of his chair. Was he nervous to see her again? After they had eaten a very tense dinner, sitting across from each other with Virgil squirming in his seat, they hadn’t seen each other again until this morning.</p><p>“What are you working on, Grandmama?” Penelope asked, turning her attention to the old woman.</p><p>Grandmama’s knitting needles clicked and clacked as they moved in a blur. “A sweater for John. It’s cold in space.”</p><p>“Now, Grandma, the temperature set in Thunderbird 5 is just fine,” Jeff scolded.</p><p>“Still, dear, it’s going to be winter soon. He might prefer to wear a sweater when he’s not in uniform,” Grandmama said.</p><p>“I have to agree with her on this one, Jeff,” Penelope said with a tug of a smile. “You might not remember the changing of the seasons, living here, but it’s as much a psychological matter as it is a temperature drop. It’s nearly November. Time for hot drinks and wool. Even if you’re on a tropical island, you’ll yearn for it.”</p><p>“Or in outer space,” Scott added, not looking up from his magazine.</p><p>Jeff huffed, crossed his arms. “I remember well enough what snow is like, Penny.”</p><p>Penelope suppressed a laugh. The Tracy’s got oddly prickly about certain subjects. But she knew Jeff wouldn’t stay disgruntled for long. She still had to be careful of what she said to Grandmama, unsure of what might set off her temper again, but she knew Jeff well enough to tease him sometimes. She looked at Virgil again, wondering why he was so quiet.</p><p>“We’re going to miss you, Penelope,” Tin-Tin said, after sipping from the colorful drink in her hand. “It’s been a lovely few days, hasn’t it? You enjoyed your time here?”</p><p>Penelope slipped her sunglasses down her nose. And looked at Virgil. “Oh yes. It was q<em>uite</em> pleasurable.”</p><p>Her words had the desired effect. Virgil shifted in his chair. His fingers fumbled on his waist coat’s buttons and hung the waist coat over the railing of the verandah. She half-expected him to loosen his shirt collar, but he didn’t.</p><p>Jeff raised his eyebrows. “What’s the matter?”</p><p>“All this talk about sweaters is making me sweat.” Virgil’s voice was just a touch hoarse. “Tracy Island never snows, you know. It never gets anywhere near that cold.”</p><p>“Sounds like you may need to visit England sometime soon, Virgil,” Penelope said, as lightly as she could manage. Her heart thumped. “The Creighton-Ward grounds look pristine in winter. Snow for miles, undisturbed. It’s quite a sight.”</p><p>There, she invited him. What would he say to that?</p><p>Scott’s head snapped up. He looked between her and Virgil. Then he glared at Virgil, but Virgil remained impassive, gripping the handrests like he might fall out of his chair.</p><p>Penelope had been too subtle after all. She opened her mouth, about to make it a true invitation, when an alarm went off inside the house.</p><p>Jeff leapt out of his chair. “That’s Alan,” he muttered.</p><p>They all went inside, chairs scraping, reading materials and drinks gathered. Jeff jogged over to his desk and flipped the switch that connected them to Thunderbird 5’s frequency. The glowing eyes on Alan’s portrait stopped blinking and revealed the youngest Tracy up in the satellite.</p><p>“What’s the emergency, son?” Jeff asked.</p><p>Scott stood beside Jeff, looking primed to head to his bird.</p><p>But Alan only laughed and shook his head. “Not the kind of emergency that requires International Rescue. Actually, we need the Tracys for this one.”</p><p>Penelope glanced at Virgil, but he seemed as puzzled by Alan’s statement as the others in the room. Only Tin-Tin looked unsurprised, the corners of her mouth twitching.</p><p>“I just got word that it’s my turn to host the annual Parola Sands racing party,” Alan said, somehow looking both apologetic and excited. “They pick names out of a hat, remember? Well, it’s my lucky year. We’ll have to host the fellas here for an evening.”</p><p>There was no response from the island for a long moment. Jeff rubbed his chin, brow furrowed. Scott looked annoyed.</p><p>“Oh dear,” Grandmama said with a flush of excitement. “Real guests! Kyrano and I will have to cook a feast. All you young racers have such appetites!”</p><p>Penelope recalled that of all the boys, Alan had been the only one who retained a piece of his old life before joining International Rescue. He picked a few races every year to enter, which served a twofold purpose: 1) his racing career distracted the press from focusing on the other Tracys, and 2) the races gave Brains the opportunity to test new features on Alan’s car. Of course, Penelope knew all too well that participating in the real world came with social obligations. Alan had to pay up now by playing host.</p><p>John and Gordon wandered into the room. John, still clutching a book to his chest, watched with faint interest. Gordon plopped down on a sofa.</p><p>“When, exactly, were you planning on telling us about this, son?” Jeff asked.</p><p>Alan scratched the back of his head. “It wasn’t like I’d been planning on getting picked, Dad. This is a surprise to me too. But look at it this way. It’s a opportunity for us to test Operation Cover-Up.”</p><p>“Nothing’s going to cover up Thunderbird 1’s launch,” Scott muttered.</p><p>If Alan heard Scott, he didn’t show it. “We could have the party around the pool since the weather’s so nice. Grill burgers and hot dogs. Nothing fancy. The guys will love it. Virgil?”</p><p>Virgil raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised to be singled out. “Yes, Alan?”</p><p>“I want the guys to see my painting,” Alan said. “We’ll hang in the lounge so everyone can look at it.”</p><p>It couldn’t be. Not <em>that</em> painting—the one she had in <em>her</em> home. Penelope’s hand fluttered to her throat.</p><p>When she looked over at Virgil, she saw him stiffen, his arms crossed tight against his chest. Color seeped from his face. “Why would you ask that?” Virgil said. “You hate my painting of you.”</p><p>Alan shrugged. “Yeah, maybe it’s not my favorite. But think about it. You painted me after my last Parola Sands win. I didn’t enter that race this year. It’s a reminder that they shouldn’t forget I’m still their competition.”</p><p>“Just set out the trophy. You’ll get the same message across,” Virgil said in a low growl. </p><p>“It’s not the same and you know it,” Alan replied. “Why are you so mad? I’m asking you to show off your painting. You should be happy.”</p><p>Grandmama walked up to Virgil and wrapped an arm around him. “Alan’s right, Virgil. You should be proud of your art. This is a wonderful opportunity.”</p><p>Penelope felt her breathing quicken, despite the mask sitting firmly over her face. She felt his fear and panic as if it belonged to her.</p><p>“Virgil?” That was Scott, probably picking up on the heaviness in the air.</p><p>Virgil hunched into himself for a moment, then released a huff of a breath. “I don’t know where I put the painting.”</p><p>“You <em>lost</em> it?” Alan’s cheeks turned red with surprise.</p><p>But Scott looked relieved. “No big deal, Virg. I’ll help you look for the painting. The villa isn’t big enough to hide anything for long. You know that. We’ll find it before the party.”</p><p>And Penelope watched as Virgil had to pretend that his cover story was true. That the painting was shoved in some forgotten corner of the villa, instead ofsold off to some mysterious buyer in England.</p><p>“Thanks, Scott,” Virgil said, flashing a weak smile.</p><p>“So this party. What’ll we do if there’s an emergency?” Gordon asked.</p><p>“Hope we don’t have any while we host Alan’s friends,” Jeff said. It was the only answer, really. “When’s this party anyway?”</p><p>Alan turned red. “The same date it always is. Which would mean... we’re hosting the party a week from today.”</p><p>“A week!” Grandma Tracy wrung her hands. “That’s not much time.”</p><p>“Sorry, Grandma,” Alan said. His eyes lit up. “I could leave my shift early, switch with John. That way I could do the heavy-lifting for the party. John could fly up today even.”</p><p>Penelope looked on, wondering what John would do. She knew he was the only brother Virgil had trusted with his secret—but where would John be most helpful? Here or back up in space?</p><p>John set his book down and pulled a small moleskin notebook out of the back pocket of his pants. With a dreamy look on his face, he flipped through the pages and pressed his finger on something written there. “You owe me ninety-six hours,” he said softly. “Four days, added up together. So you’re not in a position to bargain with me.”</p><p>Alan sputtered. Tin-Tin covered her mouth, but couldn’t hide the muffled laugh.</p><p>“However,” John snapped the notebook shut, “I’m willing to let you put more time on your tab. Your shift isn’t over for another full week. I’m willing to go back in another two days. That still gives you time. Deal?”</p><p>“Not like I have a choice,” Alan grumbled. “Don’t forget you owe me time too.”</p><p>John stared at his brother, unblinking. A slight smile on his face. Then he left the room.</p><p>Penelope didn’t know whether to laugh or rub the goosebumps out of her skin. She had a feeling she just saw a rare moment where John and Alan openly butted heads. John had only done so to help Virgil, she felt. Perhaps he wanted to be there in person to aid Virgil in recovering the painting—or coming up with an alternative plan.</p><p>Either way, Penelope’s hands were tied if she stayed here. She had to do something for Virgil. She was the only one who could.</p><p>As the conversation wound down, with plans and promises for the racing party, Penelope weaved her way to Virgil’s side. She gently touched his forearm, feeling his muscles tense through his sleeve. “Scott’s right,” she said. “The painting will turn up. You’ll see.”</p><p>Virgil looked down at her, still looking too pale and wrung out by the news. “Yeah, sure,” he said, unconvincing. He put his hand over hers, as if he needed to draw warmth from her touch directly.</p><p>Penelope’s heart thumped. “You don’t need me here. Parker and I will take our leave.”</p><p>“Now? But you weren’t leaving till after dinner,” Virgil said.</p><p><em>I need to fix this problem Alan and you created</em>, she wished she could say. But she didn’t. Tight-lipped, she reluctantly slipped her hand out from under his.</p><p>“Duty calls,” she said, sounding like the world-weary socialite she fell back on at times like these.</p><p>He reached out for her. Pulled back, his fingers curling into a fist. “I’m glad you came. I hope you had a good time.”</p><p>He sounded so raw. So vulnerable. She wanted to kiss the corner of his mouth, but she couldn’t do that to him, not in front of his family. Whatever this was between them was too new. Fragile. “I had the very best time, Virgil. Thank you.”</p><p>“Hey, Virg, let’s check the attic first,” Scott said.</p><p>Virgil sighed. Distracted again.</p><p>Penelope would have liked to have invited him to her home. She wanted to see him soon. Sooner than another rescue. But he was already drifting away from her, the problem of the sold painting at the forefront of his mind.</p><p>“Everything will be all right,” she whispered, as they parted ways. “You’ll see.”</p><p>She’d make sure of it.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>OKAY. So this was my longest chapter yet. I love it so much but it felt like a mountain to climb in so many ways. </p><p>My inspiration was trying to make sense of the TOS episode “The Mighty Atom,” in which most of us agree that Penelope’s characterization is strange. She’s very unlike herself in it. I wanted to tackle that episode in my fanfic, to try to bridge some gaps, and then I ended up writing a lot more than I expected haha.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. You Saved the World</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which Virgil’s mysterious buyer saves the day, but it’s too much of a coincidence for his liking. He and John try to take the buyer by surprise, but she ends up surprising them instead. </p><p>When Scott sends Virgil her way to stay with her during his shore leave, Penelope decides she’s going to enjoy her time alone with him, despite her worries about letting him get too close.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Even though Virgil had the whole household fooled about the missing painting, he couldn’t fool himself. <em>Victory</em> was gone.</p><p>John ran his fingers over the books on Virgil’s shelf, reading the titles. He wasn’t much help with searching the room, but perhaps that was because he was the only brother who knew they wouldn’t find the painting. So why even pretend?</p><p>Virgil sat on the floor, surrounded by old sketchbooks and paintings that, no matter how many times he flipped them over, never revealed themselves to be <em>Victory</em>.</p><p>John turned away from the books without plucking one. “You’re running out of villa. What are you going to do?”</p><p>Virgil groaned and dragged his hands through his hair. He didn’t care if he had messed up his hair. His head throbbed too much. “We’ll search the villa up and down. The painting won’t appear. Alan’ll get over it.”</p><p>John sighed. “You know that won’t work.”</p><p>“I’ll tell them I destroyed the painting,” Virgil said. He throat felt scratchy when he swallowed.</p><p>“Could you bear it, lying like that?” John asked, tilting his head. “You’ve never thrown out a painting in your life.”</p><p>Virgil had never felt cornered before either. This was a new feeling and he didn’t like it. He didn’t want to let Alan down. Never wanted to fail any of his brothers.</p><p>John sat on the corner of Virgil’s bed. “There’s something we can still do.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Let me call Reginald when I’m back in Thunderbird 5,” John said, his throat bobbing. “I’ll ask him if the buyer would be interested in selling us back the painting.”</p><p>Virgil sputtered. “<em>No</em>. No, the painting is hers now.” Whoever she was—this woman with a strange taste for Alan’s face, among whatever else came out of his brush. “We can’t ask for it back. Reginald wouldn’t even entertain the idea.”</p><p>“We don’t know that unless we try.” John looked down at him. “Virgil, this is the only way I see <em>Victory</em> making it back here in time for the party. You haven’t come up with anything better.”</p><p>“No,” Virgil said again. He was supposed to be a professional. He didn’t want whoever was behind the checkbook to see him as anything less than the great artist he was trying to be. Great artists didn’t try to buy back their work. It was gone. He’d have to face that fact. “Don’t even think about it, John.”</p><p>“You’ve tied my hands,” John said, pressing his wrists together as if they’d been shackled. His smile was sad. “Are you absolutely sure?”</p><p>Virgil rubbed his temples. “I’m sure. Let me drag this lie out as long as I can.”</p><p>He heard a knock on the door. Virgil dropped his hands from his head and pasted on a pleasant smile. “Come in.”</p><p>Scott entered the room, looking entirely too alert for the hour. “No luck yet?” he asked John.</p><p>“None at all,” John replied, with more weight to his words than Virgil would have liked.</p><p>Scott nodded, as if he expected that answer. “Go get yourself packed, John. I’ll take over from here.”</p><p>In a few short hours, John would be back on satellite duty. All thanks to Alan. Virgil would miss his strange middle brother. They’d bonded more over the last three weeks than ever before, and Virgil didn’t want that to end. He’d miss having John ground-side. But at least he was only a call away.</p><p>John ducked out the room, shutting the door behind him. Leaving Virgil at Scott’s mercy.</p><p>Scott grabbed a sketchbook from the pile and sat on Virgil’s bed, crossing his ankle over his knee. Relaxed. Deceptively relaxed. “So,” he said, opening the sketchbook, “have you emptied the closet completely?”</p><p>“Only the bottom,” Virgil said. Where he’d kept a lot of his extra paint supplies and shoved finished canvases.</p><p>“Take everything out,” Scott instructed. “We have to be sure it’s not wedged between your shirts.”</p><p>Virgil held in a sigh and stood. He grabbed clothes by their hangers and carefully folded them over the back of his desk chair. Having Scott in his room was unsettling, like waiting for a bomb to explode. He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t have something he wanted to say—considering Scott had been at his elbow for the last day and a half, turning the villa upside down with him.</p><p>Scott cracked open the sketchbook, one of at least thirty with the same covers, numbered according to when Virgil had filled each one up. Scott bent over the sketches, keeping his fingers on the edges of the pages so he didn’t smudge the charcoal.</p><p>Virgil held his breath. Waited. And when Scott didn’t say anything, he allowed himself a deep inhale. He grabbed another bunch of clothes and laid them over the chair. On his third return to the closet, he heard Scott clear his throat.</p><p>“How long as this been going on?” Scott asked.</p><p>Virgil felt his blood drain down to his toes. “What?” Virgil asked, his voice cracking. Oh god. The paintings. Did he figure it out? How? Did he find the checks in the mail, or caught Virgil sneaking down to the bottom of the island where they left their mail for delivery? He turned with an armful of clothes.</p><p>But Scott hadn’t lifted his head. He stopped on a sketch. “Everyone knows. Or at least, if they didn’t before, they know now.”</p><p>Virgil swallowed around the lump in his throat.</p><p>Scott finally looked up—and propped the sketchbook on his lap. Facing outward. There, on the pages, was a sketch he had made of Penelope leaning on the verandah railing. </p><p>Virgil had sketched her from behind, capturing the long length of her legs, her arms on the railing, the sweep of her hair and the profile of her face as she talked to someone he hadn’t bothered adding to the sketch. He remembered painstakingly drawing and redrawing the curl of her eyelashes, suspended in the white space of the page. </p><p>“You can’t hide it from me, Virg. You’ve got a thing for Penelope,” Scott said, his blue eyes merciless as they speared him.</p><p>Ah. So this was about Penelope, not the paintings. Virgil should have felt relieved that his big brother had only uncovered one of his secrets. Scott saw everything, <em>heard</em> everything, but it was only because Virgil had been careless these past few weeks, acting like a boy with his first crush, that Scott picked up on the clues. Still, he wasn’t ready to confide in his brother about that either—not that he had a choice now. </p><p>Scott raised one eyebrow. Turned another page, to another sketch of Penelope. “This doesn’t have to be painful.”</p><p>Virgil tossed the clothes in his arms over the chair; the clothes, too heavy for the chair, slid off and fell in a pile on the floor. Virgil didn’t pick them back up. He sunk to the floor and stared up his brother. “Everyone likes Penelope,” he said, trying one last time to save this secret of his. “Doesn’t everyone feel the same about her? I mean, <em>you</em> flirt with her all the time.”</p><p>Scott flipped through more pages, each one covered in sketches of Penelope. Of course. Of course he’d picked one of those sketchbooks. “It’s just for fun, Virg,” he said, and something about Scott’s voice sounded hollow, like there was a deeper hurt underneath. “There’s not much to entertain here, as hard as Dad tries. Those exchanges with Penelope feel... well, they’re a substitute for our former lives. Besides Alan, we don’t get many visitors, do we?”</p><p>Virgil felt Scott’s loneliness like a cold knife pressed against his gut. From what he knew about his brother, Scott had always been in the center of things while he was in school and the Air Force. The president of at least three clubs, and his chest pinned to the brim with metals for his daring flying. There was nothing Scott couldn’t achieve. And yet, he never had talked much about his friends. Virgil couldn’t even name one of them. Had had always been surrounded but alone? Now, with International Rescue, he had his brothers again. Scott was far from alone. But Virgil could understand what Scott meant. Their connection to the outside world was so limited.</p><p>“Anyway, <em>I’ll</em> stop flirting with her when <em>you</em> stop waiting around for the sky to fall,” Scott said, his dimples flashing.</p><p>“Anyone could have her,” Virgil said, airing one of this old fears. He wasn’t any better, any more remarkable than his other brothers. Than other men on this planet.</p><p>“You mean us?” Scott snorted. “Use your brain. Okay, take Alan. No matter how many times he throws Penelope those mooncalf eyes, it’s only because he had no idea how to express himself with Tin-Tin. And Tin-Tin doesn’t have the patience for him sometimes. But they’re mad about each other. So you have no competition from there.” Scott tapped his chin. “John is hardly around. Safe to say there’s no torrid love affair between them. Gordon’s first love is the sea—I don’t think any woman can compete with that.”</p><p>Virgil fidgeted. He could believe Scott about his brothers. But the island, while the whole world to them, wasn’t the end of Penelope’s world. There were men out there who could run rings around Virgil. Penelope just hadn’t met them yet.</p><p>“Hey,” Scott said, his voice softening. “She likes you too.”</p><p>A heavy feeling settled in his stomach. “How do you know?”</p><p>Scott made an impatient sound. “Looks like I need to lay it all out for you. First, she didn’t stop looking at you while she was here. Even when she wasn’t with you, her eyes would always slide over to you. And you <em>were</em> around enough, playing that blasted piano like you couldn’t breathe without it.”</p><p>Virgil felt his cheeks burn.</p><p>“I should have started with the toy mouse,” Scott muttered. “Pretty sure you remember the great Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward climbing into your lap.”</p><p>“She was scared.”</p><p>“Yes, she was,” Scott said, exasperated, “and with very little time to think about it, she chose to hide in <em>your</em> arms.”</p><p>Virgil remembered the hard press of her cheek against his, her body trembling. The way she dug her nails into his clothes, catching his skin.</p><p>“Then there was your solo beach trip with Penelope. You should know, the rest of us fellas had to ask her to spend time with us. But she sought you out.”Scott gave him a scrutinizing look. “You were gone a long time.”</p><p>“No comment,” he said. Virgil would never, ever tell Scott what happened there. The memory filled him with a deep ache.</p><p>“Well, what happened on the <em>Seaduction</em> then?”</p><p>Virgil blinked.</p><p>“Something happened.” Scott shut the sketchbook. “You were a mess after. Gordon said he had to take the wheel on the flight home because you kept drifting.”</p><p>Virgil couldn’t hide that from him. Suddenly didn’t want to. “We kissed,” he croaked.</p><p>Scott flashed a self-satisfied smile.</p><p>“Don’t tell me you knew that,” Virgil grumbled.</p><p>“I had my suspicions,” Scott said.</p><p>“No, you didn’t.”</p><p>“Listen. I don’t have to sit around here all day playing Sherlock with you,” Scott said, moving the sketchbook off to the side. “What you need to know is that it’s okay. To like Penelope. We’ll support you. You don’t have to worry about Dad objecting. In fact, as long as you don’t wreck Penelope’s status as our best agent, he probably wouldn’t mind having her in the family permanently.”</p><p>Virgil head swirled. Penelope, a Tracy? She’d never change her name, He’d never ask her to. But was Scott really hinting at marriage? He could barely wrap his head around what happened on the beach.</p><p>“Of course, nothing’s going to happen if you’re never gonna move,” Scott said, his voice sharpening. “You can’t wait for Penelope to do everything. She’ll think you’re not serious about her.”</p><p>Virgil’s frowned. This whole time, he thought <em>he</em> was the one with the obvious crush. She had to have noticed how tongue-tied he got around her. She <em>heard</em> the way he’d moaned into her hair when she touched him. “How could she not know?”</p><p>Scott scrubbed his face. Through the gap in his fingers, one sharp blue eye peeked out. “Come on, Virg. Thaw out. Better yet, call her up. Tell her you want to spend time with her. I know our schedules. You have shore leave coming up fast.”</p><p>He couldn’t think properly with Alan’s party only days away. Problem after problem.</p><p>Scott stood up and rested his hand on Virgil’s shoulder. “If you don’t do it, I will,” he said.</p><p>Virgil gave him a half-hearted smile. “With you, everything sounds like a threat.”</p><p>“Oh, it doesn’t just sound like one. It <em>is</em> one.” Scott grinned.</p><p>Virgil repressed a sigh. The weight of his brother’s hand was a fleeting comfort. While he was glad Scott had forced him to confide in him, Virgil still had the other secret to deal with. The painting was still missing, the party still happening. What was he going to do about <em>Victory</em>?</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>On the morning of the Parola Sands party, Virgil knew he’d have to tell his family about selling the paintings. <em>Victory</em> never surfaced, no matter how many times he turned Tracy Villa upside down looking for it.</p><p>Scott had stress-baked every night, frustrated that even his willpower was no match for a lost item. John had tried to call Virgil from Thunderbird 5 to change his mind about contacting Reginald, but Virgil wouldn’t budge. He refused to beg for his painting back. He sold it. That was that.</p><p>Virgil went down to the beach and paced the shoreline, leaving footprints behind him. Last-minute preparations were underway. Scott and Tin-Tin had already flown out that morning to the mainland to pick up the items on the menu that wouldn’t have kept if bought earlier in the week, like the gallons of ice cream they had no room for in their freezers that would make an easy dessert for the racers. Gordon and Alan decorated the lounge for the party; Alan was mad at Virgil, his cheeks flaming red whenever Virgil walked into the room, but the party preparations kept him busy. For now. It was only a matter of time before Virgil had to come clean.</p><p>A breeze rustled Virgil’s hair as he paced. The sand pulled and tugged at his legs. “Maybe I should tell them during the party,” he muttered. “So if they’re mad, then they’ll have to save face in front of the guests.”</p><p>He wasn’t sure if anger would be the reigning reaction, or if Dad and his brothers would feel betrayed or disappointed or confused—any of the above would be painful for Virgil. The knot of worry in his stomach tightened.</p><p>The sound of the mail plane’s engine cut through his thoughts. Virgil had gotten into the habit of meeting the plane when it arrived every few days on the island, bearing his family’s secrets sealed in envelopes and special orders. After all, he had to protect his own secrets by making sure no one saw him hand over his wrapped paintings for delivery.</p><p>Virgil jogged over to the landing pad, exchanged pleasantries with Lou, their tropical mailman, and waited to be handed whatever load of letters Lou had with him. He’d already mailed the tea set painting earlier in the week, so perhaps the check for it would be in the stack today.</p><p>But when Lou opened the hatch, it wasn’t just a bunch of letters waiting for the Tracy’s. There was a painting there, addressed to “V.T.”</p><p>Virgil’s heart pounded. He didn’t know what he said to Lou. Hopefully something that made sense. The heavy weight of the painting, carefully packaged in a garment cardboard box and sealed tight with packing tape, was in his hands now.</p><p>He ran back to the villa, taking the stairs two at a time, and waited until Gordon and Alan’s backs were turned before darting through the lounge to get to his room. His hands trembled as he set the box on the bed. “What are you?” he whispered. Only one way to find out.</p><p>He cut through the tape, coaching himself to go slowly. Unfolded sheets of bubble wrap. There was a letter inside the box, but he forgot about it when he saw the painting inside. “<em>Victory</em>,” he choked. “It’s <em>Victory</em>.”</p><p>And there it was. Alan’s abstract face staring up at him. The knobby trophy in his distorted hands. An air of smugness captured with precise brushstrokes.</p><p>Virgil made a wild sound in his throat. He rubbed his face. Stared at the painting. It was still there. Still there. Really, <em>actually</em> in his room, on the island. How?</p><p>A knock on his door.</p><p>Virgil moved fast, pulling the painting out of the box and shoving the box and bubble wrap under his bed. He was sweating by the time he slipped the letter under a book on his desk.</p><p>“Virgil, Dad wants to know if...” Alan’s eyes landed on the painting on the bed. “You found it! Where was it?”</p><p>“My room,” Virgil said, swallowing around his lingering shock.</p><p>Alan stalked over to the bed, a pout on his lips. “But we searched your room. Multiple times.”</p><p>How did any lost item turn up? Virgil let out what he hoped was a natural-sounding laugh. “I don’t know. I just tried looking one more time this morning. Found it in my closet. Between shirts. I guess Scott was right about it being somewhere obvious.”</p><p>“Huh.” Alan picked up the painting. “Well, however you found it, it’s here now and not a moment too soon! I’ll go hang it up.”</p><p>He could tell Alan only accepted the story because <em>Victory</em> had turned up after all—and without the packaging to incriminate him, Virgil was in the clear.</p><p>Virgil let out a shuddering breath when Alan left with the painting. He rubbed his face until it felt raw. There was still a letter. He needed to read it. Virgil lifted the book up and snatched the letter. He unfolded it and read the rather short explanation in Reginald’s neat handwriting:</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Dear Esteemed V.T.,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Your buyer has expressed interest in having her paintings personalized. If you’re not already informed, personalization is all the rage among certain art lovers.</em>
</p><p><em>Enclosed is the first painting she ever bought, </em>Victory<em>, and she requests you personalize it however you like.</em></p><p>
  <em>I would advise you to keep your personalization to the back of the canvas, where you can write a dedication to your buyer. Not one extra brushstroke would improve what you’ve already painted.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- R</em>
</p><p>
  <em>P.S. The buyer prefers to remain anonymous.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Virgil read the letter three times before the words sunk in. His buyer sent the painting back. To have it <em>personalized</em>. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to laugh or cry.</p><p>He’d heard of such a thing before. Seen it, actually, back at university when he used to wander through the campus craft fairs. Artists would sometimes sign the bottoms of their art after purchase, adding sketches or the buyer’s name. One woman who had painted a series of cats and wine glasses had filled in one of her cat’s eyes on request—the buyer owned a cat with one eye and wanted the painting to reflect that.</p><p>But something didn’t add up here, with his buyer. She owned a few of his paintings now, and all of a sudden she wanted them personalized? Had it been a spur of the moment decision, or was there something else going on? The timing unsettled him—that the one painting he needed to keep his secret arrived <em>just</em> before the event that would have forced him to tell his family.</p><p><em>John</em>. Virgil cursed. <em>John must have gone behind my back.</em></p><p>Virgil locked his door and used his wristwatch to connect with Thunderbird 5. He stared down at his watch face until it flickered and John’s face materialized.</p><p>“What’s the matter, Virgil?” John asked easily. “Have any of the guests arrived yet?”</p><p>Virgil studied his brother, looking for signs of betrayal. But John looked much as he always looked up in the satellite. Blonde hair with that curl on his forehead, the blue eyes and default smile, his uniform starched and cap on his head at the correct angle.</p><p>“What did you do?” He asked in a low voice.</p><p>John tilted his head to the side. “Gee, Virg. You don’t look so good. What’s the matter?”</p><p>“<em>Victory</em> came back. Alan’s hanging it up in the lounge as we speak.” Virgil felt a headache coming on. “What did you tell Reginald to get his buyer to sent it back here?”</p><p>John’s brow knitted. “You told me not to contact Reginald.”</p><p>“But you did anyway.”</p><p>“I’m not Scott,” John said with a huff. “You told me not to, and I didn’t. I promise you that.”</p><p>“But,” Virgil said, dragging a hand down his face, “the <em>timing</em>, John. Someone had a hand in this. If not you, then who?”</p><p>John considered the question. “I admit it’s a bag o’ mystery we’re looking at. Your buyer either has a sixth sense or...”</p><p>“Or what?”</p><p>“Or you’re just lucky,” John said. “Did Reginald say why she sent it back?”</p><p>“She wants <em>Victory</em> personalized,” Virgil said. Then he read John the letter.</p><p>“She could have been talking with friends who had their own art personalized and got the idea for it. Makes sense that she’d only have Reginald mail one of them. That takes trust, sending it back and expecting you to return it to her,” John said.</p><p>“Well, she’ll get it back after it stays up on the wall for the party,” Virgil said. What John said made sense, but he still couldn’t shake the feeling that this was more than a coincidence.</p><p>“You could test her,” John added softly.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Break our selling pattern. See how she reacts.”</p><p>Virgil thought about it. John was right. Since he still felt funny, might as well probe into the matter further. In his own way. “Reginald’s told me that I should be content with selling my paintings to the same buyer. Says it’s any artist’s dream to sell consistently. But I’m not in it for the money. What if... what if this buyer is the only person who would ever be interested in my art?”</p><p>“That’s impossible, Virg. Scores of people would love your paintings,” John said.</p><p>“<em>If</em> they ever had a chance to see my art,” Virgil said. “Right now, only Reginald and the buyer have eyes on my paintings.”</p><p>John rubbed his chin. “Gee, I see the problem. You want to get your art under other noses. Not just whoever this buyer is. Shouldn’t be too hard.”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“You have a lot more paintings than the ones you’ve sent to Reginald,” John said. “This buyer, well, there’s a small chance she has a deep wallet. What if you pack up a bunch of paintings and sent them to Reginald at once? Overwhelm her. That way, she can’t buy them all and Reginald will have to hang the others in his gallery to attract other buyers.”</p><p>Virgil’s heart thumped. He felt the blood running through his veins, a rush of hope that made him excited for the first time in days. “Do you think people would buy paintings of palm trees?”</p><p>“Not everyone lives on a tropical island. It’s only a boring subject for you,” John replied. “I’ll handle the asking prices for them. You just mail them out.”</p><p>Virgil nodded. He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry I thought you’d gone behind my back.”</p><p>John shrugged, a smile returning to his lips. “I’m flattered you thought I’d do that. It almost makes me sound interesting.”</p><p>“You <em>are</em> interesting,” Virgil said.</p><p>John let out a brittle laugh. “Thanks anyway, Virg. And enjoy the party.”</p><p>Virgil waited until the watch face returned to normal before trying to stand up. His legs felt like jelly. He had a plan now. A way to see if his art could attract other buyers—and a way to see if anything was fishy with the mystery buyer. He wasn’t so sure he believed in coincidences.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Penelope sat ramrod straight in the chair, her fingers white as they clutched at each other. She barely breathed as Reginald unwrapped each painting. There were ten. Ten in all.</p><p>“If I had to guess,” Reginald said, frowning, “these are from an earlier period in the artist’s life. There’s something... not quite sophisticated about them.”</p><p>“You mean,” she answered, “because each one is a beach scene?”</p><p>Reginald rolled his eyes. “When you put it so succinctly, yes. There’s nothing special about these. You can find paintings like these in any seaside hotel in the world. Why he thinks <em>you</em> would want them, I can’t hazard to guess. And look at those prices! He’s robbing you.”</p><p>But Penelope saw something different than Reginald. She imagined a younger Virgil, fresh from school and eager to put his degree in engineering to unconventional use. A Virgil who, in his spare time, must have taken more than a few art classes to hone his raw talent. What she saw, when she examined the ten paintings, was a skilled artist gradually becoming bored with his tropical paradise as a subject. Still, the beauty in his brushstrokes, in his color choice, in the angle he chose each time to capture, grabbed her.</p><p>Reginald handed her the list of paintings, each named and numbered, and the prices next to them. She looked at the total cost. And then told Reginald, “I want them.”</p><p>Reginald almost took a sip of his spiked tea. Almost. Lucky he didn’t, because he might have spit it out all over his desk. “You what?”</p><p>“Every last one. They’re going to be mine,” Penelope said. She unsnapped her clutch purse.</p><p>“You can’t be serious. You, a lady of taste.”</p><p>Of taste, yes. She certainly had a taste for Virgil Tracy. Her lips curled. “Don’t forget your commission, Reginald. Why would you want to talk me out of an easy sale?”</p><p>Reginald blinked at that. He set his cup down. “Are you certain? You’re under no obligation to this artist. The subject is so... so universal, I’m confident I can sell these. They’re not high art, by any means, but people like to hang paintings in their homes of the places they’d rather be. The unimaginative think island life is the pinnacle of success.”</p><p>Penelope <em>did</em> have an obligation—to her heart. She could not walk out of the gallery without these paintings. She felt a fierce possessiveness about them. He didn’t know she was the one buying his art, but she knew who <em>he</em> was, and it mattered, that she would have every piece of him he was willing to give.</p><p>“Quite certain, Reginald,” she said with deadly softness. “Call them, please.”</p><p>The phone call that followed was nothing short of amusing. John had answered, back in Thunderbird 5. It was comforting to hear John’s voice again after a month of radio silence. Virgil was there, sitting like she was in the background, but unlike her, he did speak up from time to time.</p><p>It took a slew of hand gestures from Penelope to ensure that Reginald did not try to haggle the total down this time.</p><p>“The buyer will have them all, for your asking price,” Reginald said, as if it pained him.</p><p>On the other end of the line, silence choked the room. John must have muted the line. </p><p>Reginald tried not to laugh. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, as if he could erase his reaction. They waited a full minute, but the line stayed silent. “John?” Reginald prompted, using the only name John had given him.</p><p>The line crackled back to life. “Uh. All of them?” John asked.</p><p>“That <em>is</em> what I said,” Reginald replied.</p><p>John sounded nothing short of stunned. “For the asking prices?”</p><p>“As they are, yes.” Reginald flashed a smile at Penelope. “Are you all right?”</p><p>“A-OK,” came John’s chipper tone. He recovered, somewhat.</p><p>Penelope listened for Virgil to cut in, but he didn’t say a word. Perhaps he was as surprised as John.</p><p>This time, Reginald did not demand another new painting from Virgil at breakneck speed. He didn’t even mention it. Mercy came in many forms. Penelope wrote her check and handed it over.</p><p>Mildly disappointed not to hear Virgil’s voice, but understanding why, she had Reginald wrap all the paintingssecurely for the drive home. She called Parker in to carry the paintings. Parker, for his part, didn’t say a word about the paintings until they were both inside FAB 1, on their way home.</p><p>“Wot did you do, buy out the ‘ole gallery while I was readin’ the paper?” Parker asked, stepping on the gas to merge with traffic.</p><p>“Something like that,” Penelope said, sinking into the backseat with a smile. The canvases had come in different sizes, some rather large, so not all of the paintings had fit in the trunk. On either side of Penelope, Virgil’s paintings crowded around her.</p><p>Car rides always made her drowsy, relaxed. The road unraveled ahead of them, with rush of cars ebbing and flowing like the ocean. She kept her gaze straight ahead, having always found it rude to stare into the other vehicles around her.</p><p>An incoming call drew her out of her pleasant, slow thoughts.</p><p>“That’ll be the Tracy’s, m’lady,” Parker said. “Shall I connect you?”</p><p>The Tracy’s? Was there an emergency? She only just got off the line with John and Virgil. “Oh dear,” she said, looking at the mess of paintings in the backseat. “Just a moment, Parker.”</p><p>It wouldn’t do to have whoever was calling ask her questions. FAB 1 would automatically connect her with audio and visual features since the call was from Tracy Island. The last thing she needed was Jeff noticing the artwork jammed onto the seat with her. Penelope moved quickly to resettle the paintings on the floor, whispering apologies to the poor canvases. Protected as they were, she hated to see them on any floor. They didn’t deserve it.</p><p>“Open the line, please, Parker,” she said, smoothing down her hair.</p><p>The video monitor flickered to life, revealing Scott’s face. “Hi, Lady Penelope,” he said.</p><p>“Scott?” She wanted to ask where Jeff was, why he was calling, but she kept her questions to herself. All would be revealed shortly. She went with light flirting. A good move with Scott. “Do you miss me already?”</p><p>Scott’s dimples dug into his cheeks as he grinned. “We could have used you at the party. Alan’s friends are so dull.”</p><p>From somewhere off-screen, Alan made an annoyed sound.</p><p>To her mind, the party had been a smash—if only because her clever ploy of delivering Alan’s painting back to the island had worked. She had been anxious that whole day, wondering if it had arrived safely, if Virgil had been the first Tracy to find it in the mail, if it had gone up on the wall before the first guests arrived. But it must have. No emergencies had reached her ears that day.</p><p>And then, a few days after, Victory came back to her. Virgil had personalized it with a note on the back of the canvas, wishing her enjoyment on her very first purchase of his. It was simple and a tad impersonal, but that was what she had asked for. Rather she had <em>that</em> than Virgil knowing exactly who owned the painting now.</p><p>Scott hardly noticed her lack of response. He plunged ahead, “Then again, if you <em>had</em> been there, you would have stolen the spotlight from Alan.”</p><p>A distinctive “hey!” came from Alan.</p><p>Penelope chuckled. “But you’re not calling me about the party, are you? Or an emergency?”</p><p>Scott leaned into the camera, a conspiratorial look on his face. “This is a matter of the utmost importance, Lady Penelope. It’s about Virgil.”</p><p>“Virgil?”</p><p>He nodded. “Virg has racked up two weeks of shore leave, thanks to not taking them sporadically. The year’s almost ending and we need him to get out of here before he falls apart. Can you spare a guest room at your place? He just might agree to time off if it’s you.”</p><p>Penelope’s heart, which had leapt at Virgil’s name, now clawed its way up her throat, drawing blood. She was slow to absorb his words, experiencing a shock not unlike the one she’d laid on John and Virgil only an hour ago, if that.</p><p>But then Virgil himself came into view, having probably heard the tail end of what Scott had asked her. He looked... not quite all there, to be honest. A little pale, eyes wide, his sleeves hurriedly pushed up his forearms. So perhaps he hadn’t recovered from the sale of his army of beach paintings. And now this. “Scott,” he hissed between clenched teeth, “what are you doing?”</p><p>“Forcing you to take your vacation,” Scott said, not at all upset about getting caught. He stood taller, jutting his chin out at Virgil. “Don’t make me bring this up to Dad. You have shore leave you haven’t used all year. All <em>year</em>, Virg.”</p><p>“You’re one to talk,” Virgil said.</p><p>But Scott Tracy was exempt, allowed to throw himself into near exhaustion whenever he liked—a perk of being the eldest. Scott turned to her. “Well, Lady Penelope?”</p><p>And then Virgil looked at her.</p><p>Penelope drew in a sharp breath. Her mask, she was sure, was fully in place. Not a muscle twitch, not a crumb of the ache in her heart showing—she hoped. “Of course you can come here, Virgil,” she said, slowly, softly, afraid her voice might shatter. “As soon as you can. I’ll be ready for you.”</p><p>Virgil Tracy did not blush. She knew that. But she noticed the way his throat bobbed, the tightening of his jaw, and if she touched his skin, it would feel flame-hot under her fingers.</p><p>“Please come,” she added. “I insist.”</p><p>“Okay,” Virgil murmured, staring at her as if he couldn’t look away. A small, cautious smile shaped his lips. Turned her heart inside out.</p><p>Scott looked relieved. He thumped Virgil on the back. “Thank you for your great sacrifice, Lady Penelope. We’ll let you know when we’ve got his bags packed.”</p><p>Penelope hoped it wouldn’t take as long as it took Parker to pack her bags. Two weeks with Virgil all to herself. It hardly seemed real. But then, she was ready for a fantasy.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Remember, Parker. Under no circumstances should Virgil see the gallery,” Penelope had said.</p><p>“But I ‘ave to clean the room, m’lady,” was his stubborn answer.</p><p>“If you must, then save it for when we’re both sleeping.” She couldn’t very well ask him to clean while she and Virgil were out, considering the fact that Parker would be the one driving them. “At all other times, the gallery is to be locked.”</p><p>“Yes, m’lady,” Parker said, and that had been the end of that conversation.</p><p>In the hours leading up to Virgil’s arrival, she tried the doorknob on the gallery whenever she walked past, relieved when it wouldn’t open at her touch.</p><p>Whenever she had guests at the Creighton-Ward Mansion, she entertained them in London. After all, London was where the excitement was. All of her energy, every breath and smile, went into making sure her guests enjoyed themselves. Their pleasure was her pleasure. She siphoned off of them, in a way. But she didn’t want to take Virgil to London.</p><p>Dazzling him with museum tours and swanky nightclubs would have been the usual way of things, meant to seduce him into thinking he’d never had a more jolly time than in her company. Her parents valued hospitality and ingrained that value in her. But with Virgil, she wanted to be selfish. Tear down the lights, strip the glitter and glamour and have him see what was behind the curtains: the Penelope Creighton-Ward between the rescues and assignments. She was afraid there wasn’t much of a difference, but she had to try.</p><p>So when Virgil arrived, piloting the family helijet, she had no plans for Parker to drive them into London. Rural Kent, where she made her home, would have to suffice. And she knew just the place to take him for dinner. </p><p>The Speckled Ewe was a restaurant tucked between rolling fields of rapeseed. The building had old-world charm thanks to the thatched roof, the white-washed exterior, and the candles flickering every window, as if beckoning weary travelers in for a warm meal. Penelope felt more exposed here than she did sweating under stage lights—the farmers and villagers occupying the tables were her neighbors, and surely knew everything there was to know about Lady P. But the food was hot and tasty, the live music raw and intoxicating.</p><p>When the hostess showed them to table wedged into a corner overlooking the stage where the band played, Penelope let out a little sigh and pulled off her gloves. Her cheeks stung from the cold. Only a few inches of snow had covered the land, most of it melting in the autumn sun, but it was still quite chilly.</p><p>Virgil, used to tropical temperatures, trembled in the seat across from her. He had packed the right clothes, thick sweaters and scarves and fur-lined coats, but the layers seemed to have done nothing to keep the wind from cutting him to the bone. His nose was red, his lips dry and cracked already. When the waitress asked them if they wanted tea or coffee, Virgil said “both.” He burned his tongue on his first eager sip of black coffee.</p><p>Penelope nursed her own cup of tea, sneaking glances at Virgil from under her eyelashes. The generous fire in the hearth was behind him, casting shadows over Virgil. Their world was covered in shadow and orange-red flames. Slowly, the stuffy, delicious heat reached them both.</p><p>Penelope shrugged out of her coat. Far from one of her glamorous dresses, she chose a wool, mod dress in burnt umber. The dress showed her knees and her bare arms—risky for November—but she already knew how warm the Speckled Ewe was on cold nights.</p><p>“I don’t know how you do it,” Virgil said, his eyes sweeping over her. “It’s freezing.”</p><p>“Give it a few more minutes and you’ll be sweating in that sweater,” she replied with a smile.</p><p>Virgil raised his eyebrows. His hands trembled as he turned the pages of the menu. His nose as still red. “What do you recommend?”</p><p>They discussed the merits and flaws of authentic pub food, eventually settling on the seasonal squash soup served with crusty bread, deep fried mushrooms, and steak and chips. Penelope switched from tea to a glass of Pernod, kept especially for her visits, and swirled the cloudy drink in its glass. After a few sips, she felt her muscles relax, her smile easier to flash. A pleasant buzz crawled through her veins. Their forks dueled over sticky toffee pudding.</p><p>Penelope laughed more in one evening than she had in weeks. Virgil had always been pleasant company. He had an easy way of speaking. His deep, steady voice washed over her as they discussed International Rescue’s last mission—a space rescue that Alan deftly handled with Tin-Tin as his co-pilot in Thunderbird 3—and Penelope told him about the charity event she attended last week, where the kittens up for adoption had made a mess all over her new leather boots.</p><p>“They were rather nice boots,” Penelope said, finishing off her Pernod. “I’d only worn them once before. But one must make sacrifices for the good of all, mustn’t one?”</p><p>Virgil stuck to his coffee, grinning into the mug. “That’s what Dad believes.”</p><p>“It turned out all right in the end. Each kitten found a new home by the end of the event,” Penelope said.</p><p>The Speckled Ewe’s stage was small and cramped, what with the ancient wooden piano taking up most of the room. But the instrument was finely tuned. As the other band members took a break, the pianist remained on the stage, dipping into a sonorous cover of one of Cass Carnaby’s new numbers.</p><p>Penelope swayed in her seat, caught up in the melody.</p><p>Virgil watched the pianist with admiration. “It’s magical,” he murmured.</p><p>“What is?”</p><p>“That moment when a musician adds something to a piece, makes it his own,” Virgil said, his expression softening.</p><p>Penelope’s heart lurched. Maybe it was the Pernod talking, but she found herself asking, “Would you like to dance?”</p><p>He turned back to her, his dark eyes flashing.</p><p>“It would be shame to waste it,” Penelope said. To waste such a lovely cover... and to waste an evening with the length of a table separating them.</p><p>“No one else is dancing,” Virgil whispered.</p><p>“Then we’ll be the first.”</p><p>Penelope’s head spun as she rose from her seat. Taking Virgil’s hand, they wove through the tables to the small space in front of the stage. She wasted no time in arranging Virgil into the right position; she guided his hand to her waist and curled her fingers with his with her other hand. They swayed in a tight, clumsy circle, careful to avoid bumping the nearby tables.</p><p>She slid her hand up behind his neck and stroked his hair. The flame-lights and the shadowy patrons inside the restaurant blended together. One glass of Pernod shouldn’t have made her so fuzzy-brained, so at peace and unaware of her surroundings, but maybe she wanted it like that—this moment where she could trust Virgil to look out for them both.</p><p>Virgil’s cable-knit sweater was soft against her cheek as she leaned into him. She closed her eyes and hummed along to the tune. Above her, Virgil’s breath rustled her hair.</p><p>Before the song ended, another Pernod-inspired idea came to her. She stood on her toes and pressed her lips into the hollow of his collarbone. His skin was hot now, just as she expected.</p><p>She felt him jump under her lips. Must have startled him. Well, she couldn’t blame him. She shouldn’t be kissing him in public, not when the gossip could spread so fast. There was only so much safety in the dark restaurant. What if someone saw?</p><p>But then Virgil’s cold nose nuzzled her cheek. She shifted, giving him more room, and sighed when he pressed his mouth to hers in a brief, aching kiss.</p><p>The song ended with a few stray keys. Penelope pulled herself together, licking her lips and clapping with the rest of the restaurant as the pianist took a bow. </p><p>Penelope’s heart lazily thumped. She felt on fire. When they returned to their table, a check was waiting for them. “Looks like it’s time to go home,” she heard herself murmur, reaching for her purse.</p><p>Virgil held out a hand. Opened his wallet and threw down a generous amount of pounds to cover their dinner, and then some. “It’s getting late,” he said, nodding, his voice deeper than it was before.</p><p>The last of Pernod’s influence left her on the drive back to the mansion. Snowfall bathed FAB 1 in a flurry of snowflakes. Penelope leaned back, staring up through the bullet-proof glass, feeling as if the rest of the world was a snow globe. Beside her, Virgil watched the snow with reverence; it must have been years since he’d seen such weather. She wondered if he missed it, or if Tracy Island made up for the lack of seasonal changes in other ways.</p><p>As FAB 1 pulled up the drive, Virgil’s fingers brushed hers on the seat between them, leaving a tingling sensation behind. Penelope drew in a sharp breath. Yes, the Pernod haze was truly gone. She felt everything vividly.</p><p>Unlike the Speckled Ewe, Penelope’s stately home could not keep pace with the more modern comforts of home, including an efficient heating system. Nothing was more effective than an old-fashioned fire. Parker rushed ahead, intent on having at least one of the fireplaces blazing by the time Penelope and Virgil arrived at their rooms. Parker’s hurried footsteps echoed in the cavernous mansion.</p><p>“The guest rooms are this way,” Penelope said, slipping into her hostess role like an well-worn robe. The guests rooms were clear on the other side of the mansion, as far from her own bedroom as could be. Tonight, it annoyed her.</p><p>She left him at his door, the fireplace still left unattended since Parker had chosen to go to her room first. “Make sure you use all the blankets to stay warm until Parker arrives,” she said.</p><p>Virgil had chewed on his lip, lingering in the doorway. “Sure thing, Penelope. I’ll manage.”</p><p>“Penny,” she said. “Just Penny.”</p><p>Virgil nodded. “Penny.”</p><p>When she walked away, she felt like she was dragging her heart behind her; bloody and pumping wildly, it made a mess on the rugs.</p><p>Parker had come and gone. Her fireplace crackled with fresh logs. Much like the restaurant’s fire, this one brought her a sense of comfort built from years of fires and the feeling that, wrapped in its heat and light, nothing could ever go wrong.</p><p>She washed her face in the adjoining bathroom, then changed into her pajamas for the night. The pink silk babydoll nightgown was all the rage these days, and Penelope liked to feel dressed up even when she slept. It was an impractical choice for the weather, considering the hem only fell to her thighs, but she knew she’d warm soon enough and sleep through the coldest hours of the night—or so she thought.</p><p>The fire spit and flickered merrily. The thick layers of bedding held her tight. She shut her eyes and breathed deeply. Two weeks with Virgil. Two weeks. It seemed both an eternity and a blink of an eye. “There’s no need to rush,” she murmured to herself. “All in good time. All in good time.”</p><p>She snuggled into the pillows and curled her fist under her chin. Minutes ticked by. Sleep evaded her.</p><p>An itch grew in her, one she’d been trying to ignore ever since that kiss on the <em>Seaduction</em>. It was easy enough, usually, to shove aside, as she’d done often over the years. Push it into a shadowy corner of her mind. Tell her body to stop being weak, to focus on the task at hand—be it a rescue, or espionage, or engaging in polite conversation with her peers. But tonight it only worsened the longer she lay there. Virgil’s kiss in the restaurant still burned on her mouth. She wanted more. Of course she did. But she was very good at putting off what she wanted.</p><p>Usually.</p><p>“Two weeks,” she told herself, tossing in her bed. Still, the itch wouldn’t go away. After a few more minutes, she sat up in bed and sighed. “Oh dear. I really <em>can’t</em> wait, can I?”</p><p>Feeling like she was a teenager again, Penelope donned a silk robe, clinching it tight, and snuck out of her room. She crossed the length of the mansion on her toes, silent as a ghost.</p><p>With her heart in her throat, she gently rapped her knuckles on Virgil’s door. The crack under the door was dark. No fire? “Virgil,” she whispered. “Are you awake?”</p><p>A muffled thump and a soft curse later, he opened his door. Virgil shoved his other arm into one of those eccentric Tracy robes, this one patterned with garden roses, apparently, from what she could see from the shadows. His hair was damp from a shower, brown strands falling onto his forehead.</p><p>“The fireplace...” she said, looking behind him at the cold room. “Parker was supposed to...”</p><p>“I told him not to,” Virgil said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know they’re supposed to be safe, but I couldn’t sleep knowing I was a few feet away from open flames.”</p><p>Penelope sighed. She supposed that battling wildfires enough times would result in some peculiar fears. “If that’s the case, why aren’t you asleep?”</p><p>Virgil swallowed. His hand went back to his neck, rubbing there.</p><p>Penelope wondered if he couldn’t sleep because of an itch of his own. Did he still think about the beach? Did the weight of her hand in his trunks, her tongue under his ear, make him ache for what could have happened had they not been interrupted?</p><p>She reached out, her hand hovering in the space between them. “Would you like to join me?” she asked, with all the lightness of asking someone to share a pot of tea with her.</p><p>Virgil froze. “Your room?”</p><p>“Yes.” She made her smile bland. Non-threatening. “You don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”</p><p>His gaze flickered to hers, searching. He didn’t need to dig so deep. I want to,” he said in a hoarse voice.</p><p>“Well then,” Penelope said, feeling relieved. She shivered with anticipation and nerves. This was it. No more hiding. If she was right about Virgil, if the beach was any indication, she would have a lovely night, indeed. She found his hand and tugged him forward. “Follow me.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Ah, the plot threads are tightening! Because I’m not covering “The Cham-Cham” in this fic, I wanted to have a slight nod to it here with giving Penelope and Virgil there dinner and a night of piano music ;)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. We Lived in Such Harmony</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which Penelope and Virgil finally act on their desires in the comfort of Penelope’s stately home (if the eventual smut I promised is not your thing, you’ll want to skip the first two scenes and start reading at the third). </p><p>Also in which Virgil discovers just who has been buying all his paintings...</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Virgil had said yes to going to her room, knowing full well what she meant by inviting him. It gave sneaking through her mansion in the middle of the night a sense of urgency. Virgil let her guide him. Her hand was small and pale in his.</p><p>All too soon and ages later, they were in her bedroom. Penelope left him against the door while she crossed the room to the blazing fireplace. Gave him a moment. He needed it.</p><p>Before he left for England, Virgil had pulled Scott aside. They found some privacy on the verandah, dragging their chairs together. Virgil had wrung his hands, staring down at his lap until he put his words together. “Scott,” he’d said, pained, “What if... what if she asks me into her bed?”</p><p>Scott had remained calm. He nudged Virgil with his knee. “That’s a strong possibility, Virg. Isn’t that what you want?”</p><p>“If she wants it too,” Virgil said. He raised his eyes to his brother. “She’s <em>Penelope</em>. <em>Lady</em> Penelope. It has to be good. For her. What should I do?”</p><p>Virgil watched his brother, expecting Scott to flash his dimples and tease Virgil for being so nervous. Scott had an answer for everything. He always knew what to do. But something strange happened. Uncertainty flashed in Scott’s eyes. Scott scooted back, staring anywhere but his brother, frown lines appearing on his forehead.</p><p>“But,” Scott finally said, “you’ve done it before.”</p><p>Virgil sighed. Sure he had. “As if that matters. Nothing could prepare me for her. She’s... she’s something else, Scott. Where do I even begin?”</p><p>Scott’s worry lines deepened. His hands twitched, as if he was trying to pull the answer from thin air rather than from inside himself. “Virg,” he said, “Why don’t you try asking her what she wants?”</p><p>Virgil snorted. He was wasting his time. “That’s it? That’s your advice?”</p><p>Scott shrugged. “Is it bad advice? Think about it. How will you know you’re doing what she wants if you’re guessing?”</p><p>“You make it sound so simple,” Virgil muttered. “She’ll want to be impressed.”</p><p>“Then impress her by following directions,” Scott said, his humor creeping back in.</p><p>Virgil had jabbed Scott then, trying to knock him out of his chair. They wrestled like children until Gordon found them and, instead of pulling them apart, he threw himself on top of Scott and tickled his older brother until Scott cried with laughter.</p><p>Virgil could have read that tip in a magazine. That wasn’t like Scott—to have such a lack of pointed advice. But as Virgil stood in Lady Penelope’s bedroom, seeing it for the first time, he clung to Scott’s words like a lifeline.</p><p>Her bedroom was rather grand, as he expected. The walls were covered in dark wallpaper, and there were no less than five chairs in the room, as if Penelope planned to hold conference there. The artwork was sparse but tasteful—landscapes and flowers blooming in glasses vases. The red carpet under his feet matched the blood-red curtains draped behind Penelope’s bed. A golden crown with P underneath had been embroidered on the headboard, to float like a halo over her sleeping head.</p><p>Virgil drifted into the room to stand with Penelope by the fire. The heat licked at him, relentless, and he tried to tamper down the temptation to throw a bucket of water on the flames. This wasn’t Tracy Island. Without the fire, they’d turn to icicles.</p><p>Penelope tilted her head up at him, amused. “Are you quite warmed up?”</p><p>Virgil felt the carpet roll under his feet. His breath came in short. A loaded question, like she’d pressed a pistol to his head. “Not yet,” he said, that deep ache making him bend toward her, his mouth seeking hers.</p><p>She must have stood on her toes to meet his lips halfway.</p><p>Virgil cradled her face with his hands, changing the angle of their kiss so that he could drag his mouth over hers. His tongue traced the soft fullness of her lips, studying her the way he never could with his charcoal and paper.</p><p>Her lips parted, letting him in, and when her tongue met his inside the heat of her mouth, he nearly lost all feeling in his legs.</p><p>He felt her tugging at his waist, untying his robe. The motion reminded him of the beach and a low moan pushed out of his chest as she parted his robe and grabbed a fistful of his pajama top.</p><p>Slow, drugged kisses followed. Virgil swayed where he stood, exploring her mouth with deep swipes. The slower he went, the stronger she seemed to react, pressing herself against him and pulling on his clothes.</p><p>When the broke away with a wet pop, Virgil watched the fluttery rise and fall of her chest and the blush crawling up her cheeks. She hadn’t made a sound while they kissed, but he could see how shaky she was as she untied her own robe and let it drop to the ground.</p><p>Impractical as her dress been as the Speckled Ewe, Penelope wore pajamas that looked like a gauzy handkerchief. Her bare thighs flickered in the firelight. Her top was just shy of transparent; he could see her nipples pushing against the fabric. No hiding that. Not that she tried. She stood in that stiff, proud way of hers. Her arms folded under her breasts. She was waiting... for him?</p><p>Virgil pulled his robe off, quite easily thanks to her help, and folded it over a chair. He picked hers up too, stalling for time as his nerves crawled back full-force. He finished unbuttoning his shirt, fingers fumbling on last button, and followed Scott’s cringy advice. “How do you want this?” he asked, shedding his top. “What do you like?”</p><p>His words sounded too loud in the room. He felt his jaw tighten in reflex.</p><p>Penelope seemed taken aback by his questions. Reluctant to answer. He saw her at war with herself, turning pale in the firelight.</p><p>“You <em>can</em> tell me,” he said, forgetting about his bottoms and walking over to her.</p><p>Penelope drew in a breath so deep she nearly rocked onto her toes. “Slow,” she whispered.</p><p>Yes, he picked up on that. But he didn’t think it was because of self-consciousness on her part.</p><p>“Every part of it,” she added, finally looking at him. Each word seemed painful for her to say. Like dragging a secret up from the bottom of a well. “Until the very end. As slow as you can stand.”</p><p>As slow as he could stand? Virgil throbbed, hearing her soft challenge and wanting to succeed. “I can do slow,” he said. “After all, I pilot Thunderbird 2.”</p><p>Penelope made a hiccuping laugh, her fingers touching her lips. “Did you truly just say that?”</p><p>“I learned to make peace with that fact a long time ago,” he said, smiling. No matter how much of a head start he got in his bird, his brothers’ crafts were always faster—but that didn’t change how vital Thunderbird 2’s role was for every mission.</p><p>“Yes, well, a quick romp is all well and good,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ears, “but the novelty wore off for me. There’s something dangerous about drawing it out. About not giving in when your body is begging you to let go.”</p><p>Virgil shuddered, straight down to his groin. <em>That</em> slow? Well, it’ll be new for him.</p><p>“Come to bed,” Penelope said.</p><p>He watched her sit on the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight. But before she could bury herself in the golden-embroidered comforter and sheets, he grabbed her by the wrist. “Wait,” he said, his voice sounding rough around the edges. “Stay right there.”</p><p>Her bare legs, so long they almost seemed to go on forever, dangled over the side of the bed. That maddening babydoll top frothed over her thighs.</p><p>He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her wrist. Watched as she shivered and her toes curled.</p><p>If he hadn’t stopped to ask, Virgil would have made quick work of her pajamas. He would have peeled that top off of her, slid those hidden panties down her hips in a puddle on the floor. Instead, he studied her like he would with the subject of his next painting. Realized that because her top was transparent, it wouldn’t be soft. With his brush, he would have tried to mimic the texture, the enchanting way the fabric stretched and gathered in the shadows of the firelight. He reached out and touched the hemline gathered at her neck. Pinched the scratchy fabric between his fingers. The top felt somewhat like those puffy mesh sleeves she had worn on the <em>Seaduction</em>.</p><p>Virgil pressed light kisses up her arm, in the crease of her elbow, tracing the curve of her shoulder. Her breath dragged into her lungs. He kissed the underside of her jaw, but he wouldn’t be getting more of her neck while she was still clothed.</p><p>The pounding of his heart was deafening as he dragged his fingers down her neck, over her collarbone, and gently cupped her breasts. Only in his deepest dreams did he let himself imagine touching her like this. He half-expected to wake up in his own bed, his hand in his pants and panting. <em>But this was real. This was happening.</em> Then he moved his hands, roaming over her breasts to memorize the shape and weight of them. So he’d know her even with his eyes closed.</p><p>Penelope’s spine-straight posture must have been the only thing keeping her sitting upright. After inching to the very edge of the bed, she trapped him between her thighs.</p><p>Bracing one hand on her lower back, Virgil kissed one dark nipple through the fabric of her top.</p><p>“Oh dear,” Penelope murmured, sinking her fingers into his hair.</p><p>The fabric pulled and scratched against his tongue. He couldn’t imagine what it was doing to her. His mouth dampened the fabric as he sucked in long, lazy pulls.</p><p>She shuddered against him. Her nipples turned pebble-hard.</p><p>He moved between her breasts, swirling his tongue around each nipple, drawing it into his mouth, dragging his tongue so the fabric would keep the friction torturous. When she was trembling, scratching the back of his head with her pink nails, he thought she had enough. Slipped his fingers around the back of her neck and popped the button holding her top in place. “Take this off,” he said brokenly.</p><p>She brought his face to hers, bringing him in for a deep, hot kiss that made him moan into her mouth. She pulled back long enough to pull the top off.</p><p>“You’re beautiful,” he said. He leaned back to drink his fill of her, seeing what his hands and mouth had already traced. He didn’t have the poetry to tell her how he felt. He was warm all over, his body gently pulsing with desire.</p><p>Penelope smiled like she’d heard it before, accepted it as a fact. She guided his head to her nipple with a soft sigh. “So are you,” she said as his mouth closed over her.</p><p>He sucked her hard, moved by her words and how silky her skin was with no fabric in the way. He rubbed the pad of his thumb against her other nipple.</p><p>Penelope trembled, stroking behind his ears and through his hair still damp from his shower. “<em>Slowly</em>, dear boy,” she said.</p><p>He pulled back, nodding. Then he remembered the fashion show on the <em>Seaduction</em>, the way watching her on the catwalk had stirred him, made him hot and achy. “That first Lemaire outfit, the pink one that looked like a bathrobe,” he said, his hot breath brushing her skin. He ran his fingers down the soft skin between her breasts, down to her navel, and up again. “He’d left this strip of skin bare.”</p><p>When he traced that strip of skin with his tongue, blowing on the wet trail he left behind, Penelope pulled on his hair and shuddered against him. “Yes, that was rather naughty of Lemaire, wasn’t it? He’s getting bolder with his designs.”</p><p>Virgil kissed the insides of her breasts where he hadn’t been able to reach before. He played with the hem of her panties, then rubbed circles on her inner thighs.</p><p>“I think it’s time we lay in bed, properly,” Penelope said in a deep, sweet voice.</p><p>Virgil thought that was a good idea. He felt like he could barely stand up himself, even with the death-grip she had on him with her legs. She let go long enough to slide backwards on the bed. Penelope slowly raised her hands over her head as she reclined; it did marvelous things for her breasts. He watched them change shape, saw the blue of her eyes deepen, and found his legs again. The bed was softer than it looked; he sunk into it too easily, almost losing his balance. To catch himself, he pressed her wrist into the mattress.</p><p>A soft gasp pushed out of her. Her blue eyes latched onto his. “Are you going to tie me up?” she asked, her chest heaving. “I don’t mind, really.”</p><p>Virgil felt a rush of heat, a heaviness in his groin, and mostly confusion. “What?” he asked, blinking down at her.</p><p>She blinked back at him. “What?” she echoed.</p><p>Virgil swallowed thickly. “Why would I tie you up?” he asked in a small voice. Never would he have thought of doing that. He knew enough knots thanks to Gordon, but he’d never had cause to use them outside of the occasional rescue mission.</p><p>“Oh dear,” she said, looking up at him with something like shame. Her cheeks burned red. Not a trick of the fire. “I killed the mood. Won’t you forget what I said?”</p><p>Virgil gathered her wrists together and held them in place with his hand. Then he rubbed himself against her with a low groan. “You haven’t ruined anything,” he said, kissing her neck. “I’m just confused. International Rescue only ties up saboteurs.”</p><p>Penelope came close to making a noise. He could feel sound vibrate in her throat as he nuzzled her, but she was too quiet to compete with the wind rattling the windows. “I’m not sure myself why the idea appeals to me,” she said, wriggling her wrists, testing his grip on her. “But something about it feels dangerous.”</p><p>On the word “dangerous,” her eyelashes fluttered. Her hips arched off the bed, missing the friction of his body.</p><p>Virgil kept his distance, knowing that another rub could set him off. He took deep breaths, willing his heartbeat to slow. He didn’t want her to feel embarrassed. But he also doubted they could try her idea tonight. There was nothing to tie her to, nothing to tie her with. And he didn’t know why thinking about it made him light-headed and hot. Maybe because Penelope Creighton-Ward couldn’t be held by any knot, no matter how skilled he was at tying them. So it really would be just play.</p><p>He kissed her, letting go of her wrists so he could stroke the softness of her cheek. Her perfume mingled with sweat and flame.</p><p>“Under the covers,” she ordered, twisting the hair at his nape with her fingers.</p><p>He nodded and grabbed the sheets so they could both slide underneath them.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Penelope had let pleasure overrule her sense of decorum. What she told him...well, her parents would have rolled in their graves if they knew. Some thoughts weren’t meant to be said aloud, even in the bedroom. But the way Virgil answered her, the tenderness in his eyes despite his bemusement, made her ache all over with affection for him. Here was someone willing to play.</p><p>Steady Virgil, plain and unassuming alongside his brothers, had turned her boneless. Her body pulsed with hot desire, bottled up tight but gaining pressure. Itching for release. She clung to the feeling, the way it made her almost uncomfortable with wanting.</p><p>When she said he was beautiful too, she meant every word. There were no fireplaces on Tracy Island to shadow the hard planes of his chest, muscles licked over with orange-flame. She’d tugged and pulled his hair into a mess, but he didn’t seem to care. His lips were swollen, his brown eyes glassy with his own pleasure held at bay, like her own.</p><p>She explored him where she lay. The corded muscles in his back rippled under her touch. She following the line of his spine where it met his pants. She rubbed circles into the base of his spine where his skin was so soft. She dragged her nails over his ass, earning a shudder and his moan in her ear as he braced himself above her. International Rescue’s uniforms were not tightly-fitted. They left much to the imagination. But she had always suspected he had a nice backside. Now she knew it was true.</p><p>“Penny,” he moaned, holding himself still. His arms shook on either side of her head.</p><p>“Lay beside me,” she said, licking her lips. There was something she’d been dying to try with him. Something her past lovers never had the patience for. Besides, it was about time they let off some steam.</p><p>He collapsed next to her, breathing hard.</p><p>Penny sat up, pulling the sheets around them tight. Once she was satisfied with the way she’d tucked them in, she wiggled back under the sheets to face Virgil on her side. She draped her arms around his neck, pulling him close. She stroked the back of his neck, pressed a hot kiss to his chin. He traced her shoulder blades, slid his fingers through her hair. She settled one her legs between his. Then wrapped her other leg about his ass, pulling him against her. God, the feel of him. He was throbbing against her belly, hot as one of the logs burning up in the fireplace. “Roll us over,” she told him.</p><p>He did. The sheets formed a cocoon around them. No room to move now, except in the barest way. Penelope pulled him closer with her leg and rolled her hips, her wet folds sliding against his shaft. She grabbed his ass, setting the luxurious rhythm she wanted, and held him there. His mouth pressed against hers, his tongue matching their strokes. Penelope shut her eyes and lost herself in his mouth, the slide of their wet skin, the mounting pressure born from compounded movements.</p><p>Her orgasm came only moments later, ripping through her like a lightning strike. She pulled back from his mouth with a soft “oh” as he continued to rub against her, chasing his own ending. When he came, sticky and hot, holding her like she was going to disappear into the sheets, she could have cried. Her eyes burned. She blinked them away.</p><p>“How was... I can’t...” he said, struggling for words.</p><p>Penelope bit her lip and traced the line of his jaw with trembling fingers. They lay like that for a long time, listening to the fire crackle and spit in the grate. Then she reached between them and stroked him, feeling him begin to harden again. “Not done yet,” she said breezily. “I still want you inside me.”</p><p>“Oh god,” he hissed, bucking against her hand, lost already.</p><p>Even though recreating the sweet, tender buildup they had wasn’t necessary, she still wanted him slowly. She pushed against the sheets, breaking their cocoon, and laid on her back again. He came with her, hovering over her, and she pulled him down so she could feel his body pin hers.</p><p>“I’m ready for you,” she said, licking under his ear.</p><p>He squeezed his eyes shut like he was in pain and pulled away from her. “Just a minute,” he wheezed. Sliding off the bed, he all but stumbled to the puddle of his clothes on the floor.</p><p>She lifted herself up onto her elbow and watched with a soft smirk as he pulled a rubber from the pocket of his robe and tore it open. There was her responsible Tracy. She’d already been on the pill to lessen the severity of her cramps each month, but she didn’t mind another layer of protection. One could never be too cautious.</p><p>Virgil had trouble rolling it on, not quite stiff enough yet after having climaxed so recently.</p><p>“I’ll assist you,” she offered, sounding huskier than she intended.</p><p>Virgil stared at her, swaying on his feet, and came back to bed.</p><p>There was something arousing about debauching Virgil. Maybe it was knowing what with a few strokes to his sensitive areas, she could strip back his calm, unflappable demeanor and see the man underneath. The space between her legs throbbed when she saw his eyes go hot and unfocused. As he crawled over her again, her hand circled the base of his shaft and twisted. He made the most delicious sound in her ear, raising the hairs on her arms. He kissed her wherever he could reach with his mouth, biting down on her nipple a little too hard when she rubbed along his length in merciless little circles. Soon enough he was hard again, totally ready. She rolled the rubber on and affectionally patted him on the ass.</p><p>He shuddered, moaning, and nudged inside her.</p><p>Penelope arched against the mattress, taking him in inch by inch. Her walls were tight, stretching around him. It had been too long since she’d done this and her body acted like it only half-remembered what it was like. When Virgil reached between them and pressed firmly against the nub of her sex, she twitched and her toes curled and flexed. Her breath punched out of her. Then his thumb moved away, rubbing her again, but this time it wasn’t close enough, creating excruciating shocks of pleasure just faint enough to wind her up slowly.</p><p>She arched again, catching his mouth, and dragged him into a drugged kiss as he filled her to the hilt. There were few greater pleasures to her than that pressure of pelvis to pelvis. She kept him there a moment, fingers digging into his hips, and wiggled to catch the sparks. When she let him move again, he pulled back and slipped in again with lingering, long strokes. He set a rhythm that she’d only imagined in her dreams, one that tortured them both as they tried to hold onto it. She met each thrust with her hips and wrapped her arms around his neck, playing with his sweat-dampened hair.</p><p>He came first with her broken name on his lips. She held him through the shockwaves, his delicious weight sinking further into her, and then he brought her with him with a few tender flicks and rubs. Penelope made a noise this time, somewhere between a sigh and a moan, feeling it vibrate up her throat and into the fire-hot air. She must have, because Virgil kissed her deeply after, as if he couldn’t help himself. Making noises like that was... indecent. She rebelled against it over the years, no matter who she was with. But she hadn’t been able to hold back now. The pleasure had been great to keep bottled up.</p><p>Virgil tried to roll off of her, but she held him in place. “I’m too heavy,” he said with a tired laugh.</p><p>“No, you’re not,” Penelope said, feeling languid but still wrapping her legs around him to keep him in place. She guided his head to her chest and ran her fingers through his hair. She loved the weight of him. He was the epitome of comfort, like like fleece blanket in the dead of winter.</p><p>“Penny,” he murmured, his hot breath brushing the side of her breast. He snuggled into her, his breathing deepening.</p><p>She pressed a kiss to the top of his head and let her eyes drift shut. Sleep crawled upon her, catching up to them both and refusing to let go. Penelope could get used to this. Having the man she loved, exactly the way she’d always wanted. Their relationship would never be conventional, considering their jobs, but she hadn’t planned on giving anything up, and neither would he. She wouldn’t mind waiting for him, stealing time between missions. That just made it more fun. Anticipation was one of her favorite elements of being intimate. That sweet, aching buildup. The fire burning in her belly for hours and weeks until it could be put out. Yes, what fun. Penelope allowed herself to dream.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Virgil had never been a late sleeper, despite his inclination towards crankiness before his first cup of coffee. This morning was different. He slept past the dawn and didn’t stir until the sun climbed high enough to cast its weak November light into Penelope’s bedroom.</p><p>He felt like a wrung-out dishcloth. Virgil nuzzled into Penelope’s chest, where he hadn’t moved all night. His head rose and fell with her every breath. He had the scratchy beginnings of a new beard and would need to shave. His hair... he didn’t know what it looked like. Didn’t care enough to budge. But he needed coffee to function. That, or a large cup of her Russian Caravan tea.</p><p>“Penny, are you awake?” he murmured, reluctantly lifting his head up. One her hands, nestled in his hair, flexed when he moved.</p><p>Her blue eyes flickered open. She looked... well, as composed as no one else should have after a night like theirs. She couldn’t have gotten up overnight, but her hair appeared freshly-brushed and draped elegantly around her face. Like a sleeping beauty posing for a portrait. But she was still naked, soft and warm where their bodies touched. Her lips were still swollen, her cheeks faintly pink.</p><p>Her nails scratched through his hair, sending shivers down his spine. “Good morning, Virgil,” she said, her voice soft and almost breathless.</p><p>He rolled his weight off of her and settled up higher against the pillows, facing her. He traced the shape of her nose, her cheekbones, her pink mouth with the pads of his fingers. “How are you feeling?”</p><p>She kissed his fingers as they traced her mouth. “Very well, thank you. And grateful we haven’t been needed for a mission. I don’t think I can move yet.”</p><p>“Shore leave,” Virgil said. “They wouldn’t call here unless it was the most extreme of emergencies. Dad and the team will make due with other resources.” Dad tried, he really did, to use other agents when he could. Penelope couldn’t be everywhere at once, not only FAB 1 at her disposal.</p><p>“Of course,” Penelope said, shifting to lay on her side. Her hands drifted over his chest. “That’s considerate of him.”</p><p>Virgil hummed. Neither of them had the energy to do more than gently touch each other and share shy, morning-after smiles. However, nothing could have stopped his stomach from gurgling.</p><p>Penelope laughed. “I’ve been remiss in my role as hostess.You’re not allowed to be hungry. How dare I have let this go on for so long?”</p><p>Virgil reached after her as she slid out of bed. Then his voice caught in his throat when he got an eyeful of her backside in the morning light as she crossed the room.</p><p>Penelope rang for Parker, using the old-fashioned bell system installed on her wall. She donned her robe, expecting Parker’s swift arrival, but after a few long minutes, there was no knock at the door. “Oh dear,” she said, playing with the silk belt of her robe. “Where could he be?”</p><p>Virgil squinted, reading the labels on the bells. “You don’t have one for every room, right? Maybe he’s somewhere else. So he can’t hear you calling.”</p><p>Penelope sighed. “I suppose so.”</p><p>“Come back to bed,” he said, wanting to see that robe hit the ground again. But more than that, he wanted her to rest longer. Hostess or not, he’d rather be the one searching the halls for Parker than stay in bed while she did it. “I’ll go find Parker.”</p><p>Unease flickered in Penelope’s eyes. Only for a moment. But it was gone again as she returned to bed. “If you insist.”</p><p>“I do. We’ll have breakfast before the day ends,” he said, kissing her cheek.</p><p>Virgil took a moment to clean himself up in the adjoining bathroom, splashing his face with water. His hair had clearly been tugged and twisted and pulled within an inch of its life. Even using some water to flatten it down didn’t help much, so he gave up and let it be. All of his belongings were back in his guest room across the mansion, so he put his pajamas and robe back on. “I’ll be right back,” he told her.</p><p>She tucked her fist under her chin, peering at him from her nest of pillows. There was that anxious, searching look again. But she seemed to tamper it down.</p><p>Virgil entered the hallway and made his way through the mansion, stopping at very doorway to call Parker’s name. Despite the home’s value and significance, it wasn’t as large as many of the mansions dotting the English countryside. It had a compactness to its bones that intrigued Virgil, who had never been one for wasted space in his own engineering designs.</p><p>He turned corners occupied by glass-blown vases as tall as people. The walls were covered in dark, reflective wallpaper unless they were cut from marble. Ancient rugs led him onwards. Penelope’s home was the exact opposite of the Tracy Villa in style and design. And sometimes he thought that it didn’t completely reflect Penelope. More so, walking through it felt representative of the woman she had to be, family baggage and all, to fulfill her social obligations and her role within International Rescue.</p><p>Up ahead, he heard Parker’s tuneless singing. Parker sang something about cracking a safe and swimming in a bathtub of pounds. Virgil followed his voice to an open doorway. He was no singer himself, but surely he could teach Parker a thing or two about pitch. The man sounded like a dying cat. Virgil opened his mouth, about to tell him so as he stepped through the doorway. “Morning, Parker,” he said, “What...?”</p><p>The room was a perfect hexagon. It didn’t get much light, nor was there much inside in the way of furniture besides a chaise lounge in the very center. The walls were a cheerful mint color—walls that were covered in his paintings.</p><p>Virgil’s hands hung at his sides, too heavy to lift. The warm, pleasant feeling he’d had all morning slipped through his fingers like water, replaced with a cold knot in his belly. This had to be a nightmare. He was still in bed with Penelope, her nails gliding through his hair, his nose pressed into the side of her breast. Virgil pinched himself on his forearm and winced from the pain.</p><p>Parker stood on a ladder, dusting <em>Night in Monte Carlo’s</em> frame. He stopped singing the moment he heard Virgil speak. Duster in hand, spine twisting to face Virgil, the manservant looked alarmed to find Virgil standing there. His ruddy cheeks burned as dark as beets. “Cor! You’re not supposed to be ‘ere.”</p><p>A dark, sinking feeling rushed over him. Virgil drifted into the middle of the room, turning, taking in each and every painting surrounding him. <em>Victory</em> hung over the fireplace. There was <em>A New Dawn</em>, sitting rosy next to <em>Night in Monte Carlo</em>. <em>In the Garden</em> hung on the wall with the windows, abstractly referencing the roses Penelope was sure to have on her grounds. Spotting the tea set painting, which he had named <em>One More Cup</em>, tore up his insides, a despair so cutting he could have doubled over from its intensity. There was Penny’s lipstick print, captured with his brushes and paints. And here the painting was, in Penelope’s home.</p><p>He heard himself panting, dragging in air like he’d been sealed up inside a bank vault. This must be a mistake. <em>She couldn’t have.. she wouldn’t...</em></p><p>All the paintings he’d sold to trick his buyer out of monopolizing his art hung in scattered rows toward the ceiling. Every palm tree and sandy sliver of beach. Every piece of art he’d sold through Reginald was present and accounted for. Every last one.</p><p>“You were supposed to be asleep,” Parker said, as if speaking to a child.</p><p>Virgil dragged his hands over his face. He felt numb. “I slept long enough.” He had, hadn’t he? Slept through his suspicions about who his mysterious buyer was, and why Penelope had become suddenly so interested in him.</p><p>“Oh my,” Penelope whispered, stepping into the room on ghost-like feet. She hugged her arms, nailing digging into silky fabric and skin.</p><p>Virgil studied her, the way a lock of hair brushed her one pale cheek, shame written all over her face—a look he’d never seen before in her. “What is this?” he asked, gesturing to the paintings all around them. “Where did these come from?”</p><p>He hoped she had a good explanation. That it wasn’t what he thought it was. The knot in his stomach grew with each passing second.</p><p>Penelope gripped her arms tighter. Her chin tucked into her chest. She couldn’t meet his eyes. “They’re mine. I bought them.”</p><p>The floor tilted. That must have been why his stomach rose up to his throat, why his hands flailed, reaching for the chaise lounge beside him. But he didn’t sit. If he sat, he might never be able to get back up. “No,” he said. “No, you couldn’t have. Not the way I arranged it. It was a complete secret. No one,” meaning, his family, “should ever have found out.” </p><p>Her face went stiff, the mask slowly slipping back on. Her shoulders rolled back. The grip on her arms loosened. “I know I wasn’t meant to find out, Virgil. But I happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time to see your painting of Alan hanging in a gallery. I couldn’t let it stay there.”</p><p>“Of course you couldn’t,” he said, his jaw tightening. His chest rose and fell as each laboring breath fed his ability to speak around the ache in his heart. “You were just doing your job.”</p><p>“Cor,” Parker muttered.</p><p>Penelope flinched, so subtle he almost missed it, but he went on.</p><p>“You’re International Rescue’s first-rate agent. Keeping our identities secret from the rest of our world, stopping any security leaks that might expose us, is what you do best,” Virgil said. A low, burning anger flickered in him. He didn’t get angry often—it was unsettling. He wanted it out of him. Hated feeling like he was burning from the inside out. He looked to her for help, to put out the fire, but she offered him nothing.</p><p>Penelope only stood there, still as stone, her lips a thin, bloodless line.</p><p>“You caught me breaking Dad’s rules. It makes sense now,” he said, “why Reginald’s buyer bought every painting without offering any resistance. Why any price John named was well within your budget. You couldn’t let even one painting slip by. If you did, and someone figured out who I was, the whole operation would have been compromised.”</p><p>Penelope opened her mouth, but it wasn’t to say what he needed. It was just another question, to keep him talking. “Then why did you sell them?”</p><p>“Can’t you guess?” Virgil cut the air with his hand. “My mother’s artwork hung in galleries all over the world. People knew who she was. They praised her work. But I might die never knowing if I was any good.” God, it hurt. He drew in a ragged breath. “This was my chance to find out.”</p><p>Virgil waited, his heart pounding in his ears, but she only became colder and more self-contained with each moment that passed. He watched her spine take its perfect shape, her eyes closing off, no longer reflecting whatever was going on inside her. He was <em>losing</em> her. But she was a cliff and he had fallen off her with nothing to grab onto, no way to stop that awful swooping feeling of the ground rising up to meet him.</p><p>Penelope looked as if she was caught between deciding whether to subdue him with a kiss or a gun to the heart. The gun would have been more merciful. “Please, Virgil,” she said, her voice catching. “There’s no need to be so upset.”</p><p>“Am I making a scene?” he asked, lashing out, wanting to shatter that mask.</p><p>But Penelope was immovable. Her chin rose. “I quite understand, dear boy. But if you would only just...”</p><p>“What are you going to do next, now that you have so many of my paintings? Are you going to tell Jeff Tracy?” Virgil rubbed his face. The thought of his father finding out this way made him feel as if someone poured snow down his back. “Yes, you will. It’s your job. You’ll tell him.”</p><p>“Virgil...” The mask stayed in place. His name on her lips could have been just an exhale on her part, a meaningless noise.</p><p>He looked around at his work for the past few months. His new paintings, all of them inspired in some way by the woman standing in front of him. If he tried to paint her now, he wouldn’t know where to start.</p><p>There was something else he needed to know but was too scared to ask. About the kiss on the ship. The beach. Last night. Had it all been part of her plan to keep him happy, content and more importantly quiet while she swept his attempt at making contact with the outside world under the rug? God. He felt like he was bleeding somewhere deep inside.</p><p>The room was too small, too hot, the walls pressing in on him. He had to leave. But not before he ripped out his heart and showed it to her. “You really are too good at your job,” he said, swallowing around the tears burning at the back of his throat. “I was falling for you, and you were just trying to keep me a secret from the world. Good job, Agent Creighton-Ward. You won.”</p><p>He waited a moment more, searching for a sign that he was wrong.</p><p>Penelope was a blank canvas. Unreadable. Her chin trembled, he thought, but maybe he was only imagining it. Hoping for it. It wasn’t enough.</p><p>“Goodbye, <em>Lady</em> Penelope,” he said, forcing himself to move. He brushed past her on his way out, but she didn’t grab him, didn’t drag him in for an aching kiss or and bone-cracking hug. She let him go. So he went.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The Tracy helijet wasn’t as loud as a Thunderbird’s engine, but she heard it all the same.Penelope tipped sideways, thumping against the doorway and held herself the way she wished she could have held Virgil. Unseeing, she listened to the sound of the engines grow faint. Her feet were cold on the floorboards. She was cold all over, suddenly, and her teeth chattered.</p><p>Parker, gaping like a fish, fidgeted with his duster. “I do apologize, m’lady,” he said. “If you want my resignation...”</p><p>“Nonsense, Parker,” she said faintly. “Finish your cleaning.”</p><p>Penelope wasn’t sure how she moved. One leg, then the other, one would suppose. She was naked under her robe and didn’t care a whit about returning to her room to fix that slight discomfort as she wandered through her stately home.</p><p>Before she knew it, Penelope was in the kitchen. The warmest corner of the mansion. Heat from Lilian’s cooking washed over her, making her fingers and toes sting.</p><p>Lilian was smoking a cigarette as she stirred a pot of oatmeal on the stove. The radio was on, blasting one of Cass Carnaby’s tunes. The radio never seemed to play anything else. “M’lady, wot are you doin’ ‘ere?”</p><p>“Making myself tea,” Penelope heard herself say. She moved like an automaton to the hutch where the frequently-used teacups hung in neat little rows. She could not take a cup with a rose on it—the mere thought made her stomach twist painfully—so she took a teacup patterned with macaws on branches and the matching saucer. She avoided the Russian Caravan, making a whimpering sound, and picked solid English Breakfast. Then realized she and Virgil were <em>supposed</em> to have had breakfast. Together.</p><p>The tears came like sudden rain. Penelope hunched over the kitchen counter, choking on her sobs. She held the teacup in a death-grip under her face. Hot tears slid down her cheeks and dripped from her chin. She made horrid sounds. Embarrassing, really, but she couldn’t stop.</p><p>She realized her heart had splintered in the gallery. Her pride had only held the pieces together until Virgil left, until there was no longer an audience to judge her. The ache was terrible. Worse still was that she let him walk out with the wrong idea. Deflect, diffuse, distract—agent tricks. But FAB training never taught her how to tell the truth when she was scared.</p><p>“I always knew you were a bit devilish, m’lady, but you’re not supposed to drink your own tears. You’ll be wantin’ someone else’s,” Lilian said, rubbing Penelope’s back.</p><p>“She could have had Virgil’s,” Parker said, appearing in the kitchen, sans duster. “From the looks of it, ‘e was ready to cry.”</p><p>Penelope made another awful sound as the tears kept coming. Her teacup had indeed caught some of her tears.</p><p>Lilian pried the teacup from her hands. Then flicked it in the sink, emptying the tears. “That’s quite enough of that, m’lady. Wot ‘appened up there?”</p><p>Penelope shook her head. Tears streaked down her face. She made a choking sound and squeezed her hands into fists. Ever since she was a little girl, she could not speak and cry at the same time. It was a flaw she had never been able to master. So she tried not to cry, ever, with great success.</p><p>If she had broken down in the gallery, if she had let one tear get by, she would have lost her ability to answer Virgil. The words would have gotten jammed deep down into her belly where they wouldn’t have risen until she’d cried buckets. Her detachment had been defense against that, and yet, she hadn’t used her words to fix the problem. Instead, she ended up chasing him away, clear off the property.</p><p>“Get ‘er to the table,” Lilian ordered around the cig dangling from her lips. “Maybe breakfast will dry ‘er up enough to talk.”</p><p>Penelope allowed Parker to lead her to the kitchen table where he helped her run to a chair and handed her a handkerchief stitched with his initials to blot her eyes with. She hunched over in the hair and made dying animal noises while Lilian put the kettle on and whipped up a plate for her consumption: baked beans, toast, caramelized mushrooms, tomatoes, sunny side up eggs, strips of crackling bacon, and sausages. Lilian even snuck black pudding on the plate somehow.</p><p>“‘earty food sops up the ‘urt, m’lady,” Lilian said, sliding the plate in front of her. “You’ll see. Take a few bites.”</p><p>Penelope wiped her blurry eyes with the damp handkerchief. She was looking at a full English breakfast—not what she normally ate, but it had been part of her plan to spoil Virgil with classic traditional foods and experiences. Letting him get to know her through her country. But Parker would have to eat Virgil’s share now. Penelope sniffled and scooped some baked beans into her fork. The syrup they were cooked in was too sweet but she forced herself to swallow.</p><p>The tea came next, English Breakfast for them all, served in practical mugs rather than Penelope’s teacups. Lilian made herself and Parker plates and sat down with her at the table. She put out her cigarette. “Now try again. Wot ‘appened?”</p><p>Penelope tried again, clearing her throat. “I need to start from the beginning. You both need to know the whole of it.”</p><p>“I already know,” Parker said, puffing out his chest. “It’s simple, Lil. About a month ago, give or take, m’lady found an artist she took a fancy to and started purchasin’ paintin’s. I was there. Packed ‘em in FAB 1 meself. M’lady didn’t want him to know about ‘er buying them, but ‘e found out today, thanks to my carelessness. Virgil was not ‘apply about it.”</p><p>“I apologize for not telling you when it was happening,” Penelope said to Parker. “You see, I knew the moment I laid eyes on the first painting that Virgil Tracy was the artist. I would recognize Alan anywhere, but Virgil also used his real initials as a signature. I understand why. He never expected anyone he knew to see it. If it hadn’t been for the Duchess and her <em>Portrait of</em> <em>a Gazelle</em>, I may never have found out. But I did.”</p><p>Lilian cut into her sausage. “So you bought his paintin’ and didn’t tell ‘im.”</p><p>Penelope nodded. She felt dried up and tired. So tired. But if she fell into bed now, the sheets would still smell like him. “Reginald, his seller, kept his identity a secret, so I played it the same way on my side. It was amusing. I sat in on every call where Reginald and John would argue over the asking prices. I could hear how rattled Virgil was as I kept buying every painting he threw at me.”</p><p>Lilian shot her a stern look. “Amused? Was that all you felt?”</p><p>Penelope speared a mushroom and turned the fork in her hand. “No,” she admitted, staring at the mushroom. She felt her skin turn hot. “No, that wasn’t all. I’ve been fond of Virgil for some time. Since Anderbad, to be precise. But he was unattainable before. Always kept himself to himself, blending with the wallpaper and letting his brothers spent time with me instead. Then something changed. I had more time alone with him. We grew closer.” She wasn’t about to tell them about the kiss or the beach.</p><p>“Fondness grew into somethin’ more, didn’t it?” Lilian said, picking at her words.</p><p>“I had to have the paintings,” she admitted, “<em>because</em> they were Virgil’s.”</p><p>“Well, ‘ere we are. Wot a mess,” Parker said, biting into his toast.</p><p>Penelope wrapped her hands around the mug of tea. Steam bathed the underside of her chin. “I’ve ruined everything now. He thinks I only bought the paintings because I was protecting International Rescue from being discovered. He was trying to see if the world would acknowledge him as a talented artist. I stopped him from finding out. He may never forgive me.”</p><p>Lilian and Parker exchanged a knowing look. Lilian reached out to Parker and he took her hand, squeezing it.</p><p>Penelope hugged her tea to her chest. Tea was supposed to solve everything. But each time she took a sip, its warmth didn’t seem to reach her heart. </p><p>Lilian turned back to Penelope. “There’s a way you can fix this, m’lady, but you won’t like it.”</p><p>Penelope sat up straight. “What must I do?”</p><p>Lilian’s expression was both soft and steel. “You have to let go of the paintings.”</p><p>No. No, no, no. She couldn’t. They were <em>hers</em>. They belonged with her. She loved Virgil. His art was proof he loved her back.</p><p><em>He used to love you, but you broke his heart today</em>, came a horrid little voice. Past tense. Penelope’s fingers turned white as she gripped the mug. Lilian was right, wasn’t she? If she didn’t do this, Virgil was lost to her forever. She had to make it right. She had to give Virgil back his chance to find out where he stood in the art world.</p><p>Penelope felt herself shattering as she drew in a long breath. “Very well, then. Where do we start?”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>WHEW *fans self* That was something else. I hope you’ve all enjoyed the first part of this chapter—before the angst. I’m still feeling a bit nervous about posting this chapter because I haven’t written anything close to smut in many, many years... but I’m also so happy to have written it and shared it so here we are haha. </p><p>You can thank episode “The Man from MI.5” for Penny’s interest in getting tied up, as well as having those lines thrown at me in F A B’s great Thunderbirds EP (with MC Parker) XD. I had to include it and it will probably surface again before this fic is done so wow. We’re doing this. </p><p>About two more chapters and this fic will be complete!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. You Painted Me in Pastels</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which Virgil returns home early and faces the scrutiny of the family. Penelope gets advice from Dianne while midnight dress-shopping. And then there’s Penelope’s plan in full-swing: Virgil finally learns what the world thinks of his art while Penelope gives up her collection to show him—will her gamble pay off?</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Fourteen days. Two weeks. That was how long Virgil was supposed to have had with Penelope. So when he returned to the island about thirteen days too early, it did not go unnoticed by his family.</p><p>They must have heard the helijet land. His wristwatch, which he hadn’t been wearing overnight, was probably lighting up like the Fourth of July in his suitcase. Dad would be mad that he wasn’t answering, but he’d see soon enough. Virgil’s insides felt hollow but also too tight, like he’s lost something and his body compressed to hide that emptiness. His eyelids were hot and gummy from his crying on the flight home.</p><p>Virgil climbed the steps up to the villa. He entered the lounge just as he had left the Creighton-Ward Mansion: in his pajamas, his jaw scratchy from overnight growth, his robe clinched tight, his hair sex-tugged.</p><p>Jeff stood up from his desk, looking like he was about to lace into him for not following the communication protocol. But when his gaze raked over Virgil’s appearance, his anger seemed to blow out of him with one sharp exhale. “Virgil,” he said, warningly, as if daring him to try silence as a response, “you weren’t expected back this soon. Anything wrong?”</p><p>Scott, perched on the corner of Dad’s desk, looked gobsmacked. His eyebrows pushed downward in confusion. His jaw worked. “I’ll say!”</p><p>Virgil couldn’t manage more than a flat, monotone response. “Lady Penelope had unexpected company. Cousins of hers. I came home because it would have been awkward to stay with them there.”</p><p>On his flight over, he had time to think—which was as painful as jabbing a knife into his hand—but he realized that he didn’t want to tell his family the truth: not about the paintings and certainly not about why he came home early. He didn’t want them to know that he and Penelope fought. That he accused Penelope of tricking him and she didn’t refute it. That they’d had sex on their first night and it had been the most achingly beautiful experience he’d ever had, and it would never happen again.</p><p>“<em>Lady</em> Penelope, huh?” Scott muttered.</p><p>Virgil glared at him.</p><p>Alan and Tin-Tin sat together at a table, working on one of Grandma’s old wooden puzzles. Alan’s mouth twitched; he seemed at war with laughing at Virgil’s mussed appearance and horrified his impeccably-neat older brother would show himself like this. But Tin-Tin let the puzzle pieces fall from her open hand. Her dark eyes were full of sympathy. Maybe she knew from the state of him what he and Penelope had done together.</p><p>Virgil quickly glanced around the lounge. Brains must have been in his lab, Grandma and Kyrano still in the kitchen—he could smell marinated chicken cooking. No wonder he hadn’t seen her yet. Gordon had a magazine in his lap, seemingly unbothered by Virgil’s state of dress. His eyes twinkled and he winked at Virgil.</p><p>Scott seemed oblivious. Which was... odd, to say the least. “She could have let you change before you flew home. You look a mess, Virgil. You must have roasted under those heavy British sheets to look like that.”</p><p>“The sheets. <em>Sure</em>,” Alan said, coughing into his fist. Tin-Tin kicked him under the table. </p><p>Jeff was unimpressed. He probably suspected, much like everyone else, that he wasn’t getting the whole story. “That doesn’t sound like Penny. She wouldn’t kick you out after you secured an invitation.”</p><p>No matter what happened, he didn’t want them to think any less of Penelope. It was his mistake, thinking he could lift her mask, thinking he had earned the privilege of seeing who she was underneath it all. He’d gotten a glimpse and it made him want her more than anything. But it was gone now. All of it.</p><p>Virgil swallowed around the scratchy grief in his throat. “I decided. I didn’t want to be there anymore.”</p><p>Scott muttered something unintelligible.</p><p>Jeff sat back down at his desk and steepled his fingers. His tone turned businesslike. “Be that as it may, you’re still on shore leave. Even if you’ve chosen <em>this</em> shore to spend it on. Until you’ve served your vacation time, you won’t be flying Thunderbird 2. No rescues. Is that understood?”</p><p>“Yes, Father,” Virgil said, nodding. He didn’t like it, but rules were rules.</p><p>“Anything else you want to tell me?” Jeff asked in a softer voice.</p><p>Virgil squirmed. He was supposed to tell his father everything. They were all the family he had. Trust was what made International Rescue work. But his jaw clamped shut. He barely managed a response. “No, Dad.”</p><p>Jeff sighed. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”</p><p>Virgil nodded and moved as fast as his legs would carry him to his room. He locked the door behind him, knowing Scott wouldn’t be too far behind, but he didn’t want to talk. Not to them. He opened his suitcase and dug up his wristwatch. He pressed the hidden buttons that allowed him to connect to Thunderbird 5.</p><p>“John?” he asked, holding the watch in his hands.</p><p>The screen flickered. John’s face appeared on the watch, immaculate as always in his uniform with that curl on his forehead. But that dreamy, lost of his was gone. He knew the helijet landed—that something wasn’t right. John sucked in his breath when he saw Virgil’s face. “Oh my stars,” he said. “You look worse than that time you and Scott tested Brains’ new cutting gas.”</p><p>“Yeah, I’m about to fix that,” he said, rubbing his face. “I need to call you back after my shower. Are you busy?”</p><p>“Am I busy?” John laughed like it was a joke. “Wait. You’re not kidding? Gee, sorry Virgil. Of course you can call me back. I’m not going anywhere.”</p><p>After signing off with John, Virgil ignored Scott’s knocking and went to the adjoining bathroom for that long overdue shower. He figured the sound of the water running would put Scott off for a while.</p><p>He stood under the shower head, sighing as the water flattened his hair. He turned the knob to nearly boiling. He wasn’t trying to wash the memory of last night off his skin. If he could, he would keep it even though it hurt to remember. The ghost of her touch followed him as he soaped up and rinsed: where her hands had been, the way her nails scraped and dug in. Virgil braced one hand on the tile wall and cried. No one would hear him under the pounding of the water.</p><p>By the time he emerged from the steam-smothered bathroom, dressed in comfortable clothes with his hair combed back, he felt almost human again. <em>Almost</em>. Hearing nothing but silence on the other end of his door, Virgil thought it was safe to call John back. This time he settled in his desk chair and used the tellecall device to connect with John.</p><p>There was no reason to mince words. He didn’t know how long he had until Scott tried breaking down his door. “John,” he said after his brother’s face appeared on the screen, “Penelope is my mystery buyer.”</p><p>“Gadzooks,” John muttered, fisting his hand under his chin. “How can that be?”</p><p>It only just happened hours ago. Still so hard to talk about. But he needed to confide in someone—someone who was already in on the secret.</p><p>“I found out by accident. She wasn’t going to tell me,” Virgil said, turning his face away from the screen. “Penelope hung all my paintings in one of the rooms in her home. Parker left the door open while he was cleaning and I happened to be out of bed looking for him.”</p><p>“Is that why you came back?” John asked.</p><p>Virgil rubbed his face. “I was in shock, yeah. I never thought I’d see my paintings ever again. I mean, I sold them...”</p><p>“No,” John said, his voice going dreamy and sad. “No, not that part.”</p><p>Virgil looked at his brother. “What?”</p><p>“You came home because she didn’t tell you,” John said, pressing his chin into his fist, his eyes crinkling in thought. “You were going to stay in the mansion for two weeks and she wanted that door locked the whole time you were there. <em>That’s</em> what hurts, isn’t it?”</p><p>Virgil felt his breath coming in faster. Tears burned the backs of his eyes. He blinked them away. “Yeah,” he croaked. “That’s a big part of it. The other was that she’s the one who bought them all in the first place.”</p><p>John cocked his head. “Why does that part hurt?”</p><p>“Why did you go public with your discovery of the Tracy quasar system?” Virgil countered. “You could have left it for some other scientist to find rather can risk compromising International Rescue.”</p><p>John’s other hand drifted to his heart, as if seeking a direct line to his feelings. “Because we didn’t die when we started International Rescue. People still know who we are. Dad’s a famous, rich ex-astronaut. The world is watching his sons. Alan can’t cover us all. So sometimes, when something is really worth it, we have to let the rest of the world know what we’ve accomplished.”</p><p>Virgil let John’s words wash over him, oddly soothing. He was right, wasn’t he? It wasn’t as if the Tracy’s faked their deaths so they could go completely off the grid. They moved to a private island—everyone knew it—and supposedly rotted from boredom except for Alan with his racing.</p><p>Scathing newspaper articles cropped up every few months, accusing Jeff Tracy of turning hermit and taking his valuable sons with him. One article even said it was a “crime against the world” to have pulled his boys away where they couldn’t make the kind of impact he had at their age. But they didn’t know the truth. Didn’t know that his boys saved the world, over and over, through International Rescue.</p><p>“Besides,” John said, the corners of his mouth tugging up, “I found that quasar system first. With Thunderbird 5’s telescope. I had to come out of hiding for something that scientists down below wouldn’t find for at least another ten years. I do have some pride, you know.”</p><p>“Not much, but enough,” Virgil said, cracking a smile. “And not enough to spend on yourself.” John had gone to bat for Virgil on those phone calls with Reginald. With Penny. He’d only seen John fight that hard when it came to what Alan owed him on satellite duty—and he usually let Alan have his way.</p><p>John’s gaze went unfocused. “Gee, that means I made Penelope pay all that money for your art.”</p><p>Virgil snorted. He couldn’t help it, sad and rubbed raw as he was. There was something funny about cheerful, dreamy John squeezing money from Lady Penelope’s purse. “Do you regret it?”</p><p>“No,” John said. “No, that was what you were worth, Virgil.”</p><p>Virgil’s heart stung. He swallowed around the lump in his throat.</p><p>“Are you going to tell them?” John asked.</p><p>Virgil shook his head. His palms were sweaty. He curled and uncurled his fingers. He was still too scared. Besides, Penny would do it <em>for</em> him. Any minute now, she would contact Dad and tell him. Like a killing blow. He’d just lay down and let her do it. “Not yet, no,” he said.</p><p>John released a shallow exhale. “Okay. Because I needed to know what not to say when Scott breaks into your room.”</p><p>Virgil’s head snapped up. “What?”</p><p>John’s chin left his fist. “Didn’t you know he’s broken into our rooms before? I guess you didn’t need his attention.”</p><p>Virgil started when he head his doorknob jiggle. He turned toward the door, watching the frame shudder. “Scott, don’t you dare,” he warned.</p><p>Too late. With a few creaky clicks, the lock gave in and the door swung open. Scott stood in the doorway holding what had to be a lockpicking kit. He looked positively furious and stalked into the room like he owned it.</p><p>“Scott, I didn’t ask you to be here,” Virgil growled. To his frustration, the tears came back, burning but not falling.</p><p>“You should know better,” Scott said, tossing the lockpicking kit on the bed. “Of course you need me.”</p><p>John watched from his screen, cupping his face with both his hands.</p><p>“I do not,” Virgil snapped. That angry flame in his gut sprang to life and he hated it. Hated being mad, for any reason. “Where did you get that kit anyway? Parker?”</p><p>“Brains,” Scott said, as if it was obvious. “But yes, it’s supposed to be Brains’s Christmas present for Parker. Consider it tested.”</p><p>“Get out,” Virgil said. “Please.”</p><p>Scott’s expression softened. “You’re not too old,” he muttered.</p><p>“For what?”</p><p>“For this.” Scott closed the gap between them and engulfed Virgil in a tight hug.</p><p>Virgil broke as soon as Scott put his arms around him. The tears came, silent but stinging, and Virgil buried his face in Scott’s shoulder. Scott rubbed Virgil’s back and said unintelligible things in that low, muttering tone of his that Virgil couldn’t understand, but knew was supposed to be comforting.</p><p>Virgil stayed buried in Scott’s hug for some time, shaking from his crying. He felt Scott’s cheek press against the top of his head. He was a little boy again, sneaking into his older brother’s bed to wring out his hurts and fears in a safe space.</p><p>“Awww,” John said, still watching from the screen.</p><p>That broke the mood. Scott released Virgil and, with the practiced ease of eldest brother, wiped away the tear tracks on Virgil’s face before addressing John. “How why would Virgil choose you to talk about his fight with Penny?” Scott asked John without any heat. Just confusion.</p><p>John shrugged. “Maybe because I’m a completely objective third party observer.”</p><p>Scott’s eyes narrowed.</p><p>Virgil breathed deeply. He licked his dry lips and watched his brothers. They both cared so much for him and they each had one half of secrets he kept from the family. John finding out the extend of his feelings for Penelope wouldn’t hurt him—not as much as Scott finding out the paintings would. “John knew something was wrong and he reached out first,” Virgil said, setting the scene as carefully as he could.</p><p>Scott looked putout. “That’s my job.”</p><p>Virgil wanted to laugh at Scott’s stubbornness, but that would only make it worse. “Well, you’re here now. Why don’t you do your job?”</p><p>John’s eyes darted from brother to brother. “Go on,” John said softly. “Maybe I’ll learn something.”</p><p>Scott huffed. He sat on the edge of Virgil’s bed and set the lockpicking kit in his lap. “There were no cousins, were there, Virgil?”</p><p>“No,” Virgil said, relieved to admit it to someone. “Penelope and I... had an argument.”</p><p>John made a confused sound. Scott’s eyebrows shot up.</p><p>Virgil worked fast to come up with a new lie that avoided the role the sold paintings played. He wanted to stay as close to the truth as possible, though. He needed his brothers. The ache in his chest was too painful.</p><p>“She swept me off my feet yesterday,” he said, his mouth twisting at the memory of the cozy restaurant with the live music, the way she refused to put her elbows on the table as they ate. Always so proper. “We had a nice dinner and settled in for the night. It was... romantic.”</p><p>Scott gave him a pointed look.</p><p>“You want me to say it?” Virgil groaned. “Fine. We had sex.”</p><p>“Golly,” John whispered, his eyes wide.</p><p>Scott’s dimples showed deeper. He leaned forward and patted Virgil on the knee. “Went well?”</p><p>Virgil’s skin felt hot. Not that Scott was fishing for details—he wouldn’t dare, not about Penelope—but he was trying to make sense of where it went wrong. “It had nothing to do with last night. We fought because... because we hit a wall.”</p><p>Scott leaned back, waiting.</p><p>“We had this amazing night. I’ve never felt closer to her. I saw <em>into</em> her, Scott, and I knew her. <em>Really knew her.</em> But then the next morning, well, she put her mask back on. You know the one. She just went cold. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. If I had tried to feel for a pulse I wouldn’t have found it. God, it scared me,” he said, running a hand through his hair, “to have her push me out like it was nothing.”</p><p>Scott jiggled his leg and sighed. “What did you do?”</p><p>Virgil frowned. “I didn’t do anything.”</p><p>“Sure you did. Or one of you did,” Scott said with a wry smile. “You had an amazing night with Penelope, and suddenly the next morning you’re both fighting? About what? What could have been so bad that you had to leave her?”</p><p>Virgil couldn’t answer Scott without revealing his secret about the paintings. He wiped his sweaty hands on his pants.</p><p>Thankfully, unexpectedly, John swooped in to rescue him. John, who knew everything about the paintings. “Does there have to be a reason, Scott? We’re talking about feelings here.”</p><p>Scott blinked at his brother’s face on the screen. “There’s always a reason,” he insisted.</p><p>“If there was, then Virgil missed it,” John said.</p><p>Virgil could have kissed John for fighting for him. Usually there was no way out of one of Scott’s interrogations. Scott always dug deep until he found the right answer. But Virgil must have looked like a wreck despite the shower and inspired some pity.</p><p>“Well,” Scott said, “I guess you <em>could</em> be right, John.” Then he turned to Virgil. “Listen, Virg. If you remember anything else and you want to run it by me, you do, okay? In the meantime, rest up. Try to enjoy your time off. You can’t do more than that.”</p><p>Virgil tried. Over the next couple days, he ignored every alarm and Thunderbird 5 transmission as rescues came and went. It was hard at first, with his body and mind itching for distraction, but he also would have been a liability if he’d gone with his brothers. Penelope was always there, in his heart, in his head, reminding him of the beautiful thing they’d had that had crumbled.</p><p>He didn’t lift a paintbrush. Nothing could compel him to make art. The day after returning home, Virgil had attempted to paint something simple—just a beach scene—but after slipping on his smock and dipping his brush in the paint, he felt ill. Bile rose in his throat. The blank canvas gave him cold sweats.</p><p>So he hooked himself up to the piano, pressing hard on the keys with his eyes squeezed shut as he played. Melancholy tunes. Tunes that matched the ache in his heart. He sang under his breath sometimes, when the songs had lyrics, and forgot to eat until Grandma or Scott would set a plate on top of the piano for him.</p><p>Sometimes he went outside. There was one hot afternoon poolside where Tin-Tin gave him a lesson in how to properly sulk. They sat side by side as Gordon entertained himself in the pool by diving for rings they tossed in for him.</p><p>Virgil threw a ring, hearing it plunk into the water. He reclined in his chair, wearing a borrowed pair of chunky, bug-eyed sunglasses. It sat like a shield on his nose, the lenses too dark to show his tired, red-rimmed eyes underneath.</p><p>Tin-Tin saw his sunglasses slip down and pushed them back up herself. “See? I told you they’d be perfect. You can cry and no one would know it. They’ve been awfully useful.”</p><p>“I don’t like the idea of you crying,” Virgil said, frowning. He’d always been a tad protective of Tin-Tin, and not just because he once harbored a crush on her. She was also family. He hated seeing her hurt or upset.</p><p>Tin-Tin shrugged. “Arguments happen. It’s good for me to let it out. Plus, if I’m mad enough to cry, think of how Alan feels afterwards? He stomps around like an elephant when he doesn’t get his way.”</p><p>Virgil watched Gordon’s head break the surface of the water. “Why do I have to wear the poncho, though? It’s gotta be eighty degrees out here.”</p><p>“That’s the point,” Tin-Tin insisted, bending over to grab another ring. She tossed it in and Gordon whooped, diving again to chase after it. “The poncho is heavy. It covers you up completely too, like the sunglasses. When you’re feeling terrible and you just want to sulk, nothing is a better combination. It’s like a weighted blanket. Helps you feel calm and reduces anxiety. I mean, you<em> are</em> still anxious, aren’t you?”</p><p>Virgil looked down at the poncho he was wearing; it was heavy, all right, with tassels at the hemline and a hideous pattern that pretty much served as a signal for being left alone. “Scott could use one of these,” he replied, thinking of how all that stress-baking and eating would catch up to Scott once his metabolism slowed down.</p><p>Last night, he had woken up to the smell of molten chocolate and knew that Scott was awake, again, in the kitchen. Not sleeping well himself, he had climbed out of bed and made it as far as the lounge before stopping himself. He’d known that if he dared enter the kitchen, he’d either be subjected to more merciless questions or swiftly kicked out without even a crumb of whatever mouth-watering dessert Scott had baking in the oven.</p><p>So Virgil went out on the verandah instead and stood under the stars. A cool breeze played with his hair. Suddenly the smell of liquid chocolate hit his nose as if it were right beside him. And it was—on a plate that Brains held as he stood with Virgil by the railing. “Brains? What?”</p><p>“E-Evening, Virgil,” Brians said, forking the molten lava cake on his plate.</p><p>“How did you get that?” Virgil asked, pulling out of his own self-pity for a second. “Scott doesn’t give up his desserts to anyone.”</p><p>Brains stuck the loaded fork on his mouth with a shrug. He chewed and said, “Y-You could say the kitchen belonged to me first b-before he started baking. I like a c-cold glass of milk at night when I’m working.”</p><p>That was news to Virgil. He hadn’t known that Brains worked during the night on the regular. His lab was positioned far enough away from the bedrooms that it was impossible to hear anything that Brains might be doing in there—a nice bit of privacy for everyone in the villa. “Insomnia?” he asked.</p><p>Brains shook his head. “No, I-I sleep quite well. But sometimes there’s an idea I need to chase down and it doesn’t do me any g-g-good to sleep on it.”</p><p>Virgil eyed the cake as it disappeared piece by piece into Brains’s mouth. He wouldn’t ask for a bite. He wanted Scott to be a little generous and offer him a piece himself. </p><p>As if reading his thoughts, Brains said, “I don’t have much of a sweet tooth. But if I don’t eat something of his, I’m a-a-afraid he’ll end up in a diabetic coma one of these days.” The fork tongs scraped the plate. “T-This is an unhealthy way of coping.”</p><p>As if Virgil was any better. He may not be eating his weight in sweets, but he was definitely moping and nursing the hurt in his heart like it was his new job. “Let him be for now,” Virgil said, nudging Brains with his elbow. “He should learn how to contribute when he’s always eating more than his share of Grandma’s apple pies. It’s the least he can do.”</p><p>Brains sighed, his brows scrunching.</p><p>“You’re the smartest man I know,” Virgil said, gripping the rails. “What’s the likelihood of me getting over my feelings for Penelope?”</p><p>Brains studied Virgil, his eyes shrewd behind those big, blue-framed glasses of his. “Lower than eight percent, I’d say.”</p><p>Virgil’s heart lurched. “Why do you say that?”</p><p>“Due to the nature of our operation, you’ll be seeing her sooner than your heart would need to patch itself up,” Brains said, as if heartache was something that could be measured with rulers and dials.</p><p>Brains was right. He always was.</p><p>Almost a week into Virgil’s vacation, Penelope reached out.</p><p>Virgil had been sitting on the edge of the pool with his legs in the water. Tin-Tin’s sunglasses hid his tear-crusted eyes from another bad night of sleep.</p><p>“Virgil,” Dad said, “there you are. I have something to tell you.”</p><p>He would not take off his glasses, not even for his father. He didn’t want his dad to see him in pain. Even though he was pretty sure Jeff Tracy was well aware of the sulking. How could he not be? “Yes, Father?”</p><p>“Just got word from Penny,” Dad said carefully. “She’s throwing a party tomorrow and the whole family is invited.”</p><p>Virgil stiffened. He stopped kicking his legs in the water. “A party?”</p><p>Dad shrugged, standing tall with his hands resting casually in his pockets. “I don’t have details to go on, son. Whatever it is, it’s about what you would expect from her. We’ll be wearing our tuxedos so make sure you have yours ironed. I expect all of you to look your best.”</p><p>“We’re going?” Virgil choked on his surprise. “We can’t all go. What about International Rescue? Someone has to stay behind if there’s an emergency.”</p><p>“Kyrano already volunteered to keep in eye on the villa for us. Grandma finally has her invitation to the mansion and she’s not giving it up for anything. John will continue monitoring from Thunderbird 5 in case there’s an emergency.”</p><p>“Dad,” Virgil said, feeling helpless.</p><p>“It’s only for a few hours. We’re going to have Scott fly in separately in Thunderbird 1 so if we need to leave the party early, he’ll get to danger zone fast enough,” Dad said. “No arguing, son. You don’t have an excuse.”</p><p>“It’s too soon,” Virgil muttered. How could he face Penelope with his heart twisting like a cog loose on its axis?</p><p>“Not soon enough, for my taste,” Dad said, hearing him clearly. “I don’t know what really happened with you and Penny and it’s none of my business unless you make it mine. So if you want your privacy, you’ll show me that you can handle this with the maturity of the adult I know you are.”</p><p>Virgil let out a shaky sigh. Dad was right. No matter what, he and Penelope were part of International Rescue. They had to make sure their working relationship was sound. If he didn’t move forward, these residual feelings could cost them innocent lives during a rescue. “Yes, Father,” he said, stronger this time.</p><p>Dad seemed satisfied. “Good. You know I have trouble telling Penny no when she insists.”</p><p><em>She insisted. </em>Virgil wasn’t sure why that made his heart squirm and flutter, but it did. She wanted them all there. Did she want to see him?</p><p>Tomorrow was Saturday. Tomorrow, he would see Penelope again. Virgil ripped the sunglasses off his face and felt the sun heat the dried tears on his cheeks.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Retail therapy wasn’t a vice Penelope indulged in often, but Wickfens was her weakness; it helped that Elaine Wickfen had given her permission to shop at any hour, provided Penelope would wear whatever she bought publicly after. Penelope tried not to shop at Wickfens often, having to diplomatically split her time between Elaine and Lemaire so neither designer would get jealous of the other, but Lemaire didn’t have a storefront. Elaine did. And Penelope was emotionally comprised and needed to lighten her purse.</p><p>“I must have a new dress for tomorrow,” Penelope had said on the drive into London. “Nothing I own will do, Parker.”</p><p>Parker smoothly drove FAB 1 down the sparsely-lit country roads. He’d been overly subservient over the past few days, the residual guilt of causing Penelope heartache his agreeable mood. “As you say, m’lady,” he replied with gravity, as if dress-shopping was the obvious solution to their problems.</p><p>Penelope watched the stars peek through the clouds overhead. The gentle rumbling of FAB 1’s engine lulled her into a peace she hadn’t felt in days. Needing rest and sorely lacking it, she’d given into taking sleeping pills to get her through the night.</p><p>Virgil still chased her in the daylight; the memory of his soft touch snuck up on her as the worst moments, making her eyes burn with tears she’d never let drop with an audience. The mansion had been full of people all week, hired to set up for the party. She’d raked through her contacts and sat on the phone for hours, personally persuading and inviting her desired guests to attend. All the hard work would culminate in tomorrow.</p><p>When Parker pulled up outside of Wickfens, Dianne was already waiting for her.</p><p>“Took you long enough,” Dianne said, breathing out clouds in the cold November night. “I can’t feel my toes!”</p><p>“So sorry, dear. I didn’t know you’d be this early,” Penelope said, pulling her Wickfens key out of her purse.</p><p>“It’s almost one in the morning,” Dianne said. Her teeth chattered. “Are we very late or very early? I can’t tell anymore.”</p><p>“Are you coming inside, Parker?” Penelope asked.</p><p>He shook his head. “This is no place for me, m’lady. I’ll wait in the car, if you don’t mind.”</p><p>“As you wish, Parker,” Penelope said. She didn’t want Parker to freeze—though knowing him, he’d probably turn up the heating and leave FAB 1 running.</p><p>Penelope unlocked the door and stepped into the warm boutique. She turned on the lights. The inside of Wickens was simple but elegant; wood-paneled walls held racks of Elaine’s finest creations. A few headless mannequins wore the featured outfits and a mirror, not full-length but still rather striking on its wooden stand, became the focal point of the room.</p><p>Dianne looked around with interest. “Thanks for fitting me in, Penny. I wanted to be there for you tomorrow, but duty calls.”</p><p>“Flying out in the morning?” Penelope asked, gravitating towards a colorful rack.</p><p>“Moscow. Top secret mission, very timely,” Dianne said with a wry smile. “Inconvenient as hell when my old friend is having a crisis of the heart.”</p><p>“The mission always comes first,” Penelope said without thinking. It was The Rule, the only rule that mattered in the end to any good agent.</p><p>Dianne nodded. “So what’s <em>your</em> mission?”</p><p>Penelope’s hands stilled on the hangers. She drew in a sharp breath. “You already know.”</p><p>“I want you to say it,” Dianne said.</p><p>Penelope’s heart pounded in her ears. “Virgil needs to see that I love him,” she said, each word painful to speak.</p><p>“How will you do it?” Dianne prodded.</p><p>“By protecting his secret about selling the paintings,” Penelope said, sliding dress after dress down the rack. Nothing caught her eye yet. “After tomorrow, he can take the story I’ve created for him and run with it. Jeff and the boys need never know he went behind their backs to sell his work.”</p><p>Dianne tsked. “Not good enough, Penny.”</p><p>Penelope frowned. Frustration kindled like a flame in her gut. “Of course it is. He’s mad because I ruined his attempt to put his work into the world. If I fix that, I fix what broke between us.”</p><p>“You won’t fix a thing if you don’t tell him how you feel,” Dianne said, crossing her arms. “With words. You can throw your weight around as much as you please with grand gestures, but he’ll never believe you if you don’t open up a vein, emotionally speaking, and let him see you.”</p><p>A lump formed in her throat and she swallowed around it—a precursor to tears. Penelope’s spine stiffened. She breathed long and deep, trying to control the storm in her.</p><p>“Penny, you’re fully capable of doing this,” Dianne said, softer. “Need I remind you that you were in charge of FAB before you turned the role over to me. You managed hundreds of us, ensured we never failed a mission. I can’t be there tomorrow to make sure you do the same, but I don’t need to be. I know you will find a way. But I promise that there’s a reason why the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. You have to just say it.”</p><p>Penelope felt the tears. She couldn’t stop it. Her voice was gone with the tide of feeling. She nodded, swiping the tears off her cheeks before they cut lines through her makeup.</p><p>Dianne, who had never seen her cry before, took the scene in stride. “Here I thought you were made of marble,” she teased. “Even Penelope Creighton-Ward can cry.”</p><p>Penelope laughed through her tears, making a cringeworthy gurgling sound.</p><p>Dianne snorted and crossed the room to hug her. “There, there,” she said, patting Penelope’s back.</p><p>“You sound like my old nanny,” Penelope mumbled into Dianne’s shoulder.</p><p>“She speaks!”</p><p>“Oh bother,” Penelope muttered. Taking a sniffling breath, she leaned out of the hug and met her friend’s eyes. “This is why I don’t deal in emotions. Messy business.”</p><p>“He’s worth it, isn’t he?” Dianne said with a grin.</p><p>Penelope nodded. Her heart fluttered. She wasn’t sure how much damage she had done, but she hoped it wasn’t too late—for either of them.</p><p>“Of course, if he breaks your heart, I’ll break his legs,” Dianne said, a thread of a very real threat under her teasing response.</p><p>“Thank you, dear. But the world needs his legs,” Penelope said.</p><p>“Then he better watch out,” Dianne said. She stuck her hands in her pockets and lookedexpectantly at her. “So, about that dress? Let’s pick a good one. You need proper battle armor.”</p><p>Penelope couldn’t agree more. She’d need all the strength she could get.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Virgil had never before dreaded entering the Creighton-Ward mansion. His heart raced and he felt light-headed. Grandma hung on his arm, technically, but she was really the one holding him up.</p><p>“I expected the mansion to be bigger,” Grandma said, squeezing Virgil’s arm as they walked up the front door.</p><p>“It’s compact,” Virgil replied, sweeping his gaze over the lofty columns and narrow steps, “but still impressive. You’ll see.”</p><p>Grandma lifted her chin. “Oh, we’ll see, all right. Are you sure you’re okay?”</p><p>No, he wasn’t okay. But Grandma had been unusually kind with him since he came back early from his shore leave. She hadn’t said a scathing word about Penelope—but that didn’t mean she wasn’t on guard now.</p><p>She certainly dressed for a fight. Grandma wore a navy blue dress with a high neckline, her faux-fur shawl twined around her arms. Tin-Tin had flat ironed Grandma’s hair so she could wear it down rather than in her usual bun. The diamond-studded headband and diamond necklace Grandpa had bought her glittered like icicles, no match for the Creighton-Ward jewels perhaps, but still impressive.</p><p>“I’m fine, Grandma,” he said, and hoped it sounded convincing enough.</p><p>Scott hovered nearby, playing with the cuffs of his tuxedo and watching Virgil carefully. Brains and Jeff had continued their conversation from the flight over about a new pod vehicle. Gordon stuck out his tongue, hoping to catch a snowflake despite the clear sky. Alan and Tin-Tin brought up the rear, all smiles like there was nothing to worry about. For them, there wasn’t.</p><p>Parker whipped the doors open. “If it isn’t a gaggle of Tracys! All ‘ere at last. Come in, come in. We’ve got the fireplaces roarin’ and hot drinks to warm your bones.”</p><p>Virgil shivered. The mansion was cold, as usual, so that meant that the party would be deeper inside. Not the main lounge, then, though it was certainly big enough for company.</p><p>“This way,” Parker said, leading them down the hallway. He looked over his shoulder and caught Virgil’s eye. “Bet you’re excited for them to see your big surprise.”</p><p>Big surprise? Virgil’s brow furrowed. What on earth was Parker talking about?</p><p>Grandma smiled. “A surprise? You didn’t mention anything about that.”</p><p>“No, he didn’t,” Scott muttered.</p><p>Virgil swallowed. Before he could even try to defended himself—which would look like pretending he knew whatever Penelope was up to—they started seeing the other party guests lining the hallway.</p><p>Virgil was relieved that the men were wearing tuxes, making him feel more comfortable in his own, and the women were in their finest dresses and jewels. But something felt different about them. There were... embellishments. Some of the men wore bow ties in loud colors like magenta and lime. He passed a woman would paint stains on her fingers. Some of them looked like the studious types, stern faces and thick-framed glasses magnifying sharp eyes.</p><p>“In ‘ere,” Parker said, steering them into the mint room.</p><p>Virgil’s mouth went dry. His stomach twisted like it intended to walk away, dragging the rest of his body with him. But Grandma pulled him forward. His brothers and Dad behind him created a tide he couldn’t swim against. Virgil knew then, with sudden clarity, that Penelope had never intended to tell his father about the paintings over the telecall. No, this way would be more humiliating. Public exposure. God, she really hated him, didn’t she?</p><p>Virgil stood as tall as he could, knowing that one word from Dad or his brothers could snap his fragile composure.</p><p>The room looked the way he had left it a week ago. There were his paintings, crawling up the walls in an organized fashion. Every last one of them. The chaise lounge was gone, replaced with a table in front of the lit fireplace. Reginald sat at the table with a money box at his elbow. His hands waved wildly as he talked with one of the guests, who played with the straps of her hand-knit purse.</p><p>“My, Virgil, look at this. How stunning,” Grandma said, patting his arm. “We don’t have walls this high at home for your art. I didn’t know they could look so grand all together.”</p><p>Alan made a strangled sound behind him. “What is <em>my</em> painting doing over the fireplace?” His cheeks flushed with outrage.</p><p>Virgil almost bit his own tongue searching for an explanation. <em>Victory</em> looked magnificent bathed in the shadows and flame from the fireplace.</p><p>“I don’t understand.” Dad crossed his arms, attempting to peel the paint off the walls in his search for an answer. “What goes on, Virgil?”</p><p>“It’s really quite simple, Jeff,” came Penelope’s voice.</p><p>Virgil turned around. His breath punched out his chest. “Lady Penelope,” he murmured, dredging up her most formal name for a greeting.</p><p>She was achingly lovely. Her hair had been arranged to resemble a beehive, her fringe sweeping stiffly over her forehead. Not a strand out of place. Her floor-length, cotton dress was white, gently striped with peach accents and ruffled at the collar. It was not the kind of dress he would expect someone to wear in cold weather, though it was sleeved and looked quite warm.</p><p>Penelope’s mask was firmly in place, as expected. A faint smile, that cool gaze. Whatever was behind the facade were feelings he couldn’t guess at. “I’m so glad you all could make it. Virgil and I both thought that it would be better if we kept the nature of this party a secret until your arrival.”</p><p>“Did you now?” Scott mumbled, glaring at Virgil.</p><p>Virgil nodded, a jerk of his chin, and decided to get this over with. “You tell them, Lady Penelope. You’re better with words.”</p><p>Penelope’s hands twitched. She laced her fingers together to keep them from trembling. “Very well,” she said softly.</p><p>Why were her hands shaking? Virgil couldn’t understand it. <em>She</em> was the one with the power.</p><p>“This isn’t a party. It’s an art exhibit. I can assure you, Jeff, that Virgil’s identity is safe. No one knows who the artist is. In a way, the mystery makes the purchase of these paintings all the more enticing,” she said.</p><p>Virgil tried to keep his expression blank. But underneath, he was struggled to catch up. She wasn’t telling his family that he had gone behind their backs to sell his art. This party was creating an alternate story. A lie—but one that Penelope could make believable. This was an art exhibit. Penelope was selling his paintings.</p><p>The paintings that belonged to her.</p><p>“Please be easy on him,” Penelope said, touching Jeff’s arm. “He was worried that you wouldn’t approve. I pushed him into it. I thought he was talented enough to get his work out there. If you listen, you’ll see that I’m right about that.”</p><p>If they listen? Virgil looked around. Just who were these guests?</p><p>“That’s my painting,” Alan said, fuming. “You can’t sell it!”</p><p>“No one’s bought it yet,” Penelope said with a sly smile. “Maybe you ought to properly claim it before someone else does.”</p><p>Alan scowled. Then he turned to Virgil and said, “Fine. I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have given you a hard time. I actually <em>do</em> like the painting.”</p><p>Virgil’s breath caught. An old ache in his chest faded away. “You do?”</p><p>“Of course.” He pushed Virgil’s shoulder. “Are you happy now? Jeez, the lengths a fella will go through to get an apology. Well! I’m buying it. It’s mine now. That means from now on, I get to decide what to do with it.” He stalked over to Reginald’s table, his hand already slipping into his pocket for his wallet.</p><p>Tin-Tin grinned and moved to follow Alan. “Congratulations on your sale,” she told Virgil.</p><p>“Thanks,” Virgil whispered. The room felt hot. Too hot.</p><p>Jeff had watched the exchange quietly. The corner of his mouth tugged up. “This didn’t need to be secret, son,” he said, “but I’m glad you let Penelope help you. The security of our organization is priority, and it looks as if it’s been taken care of.”</p><p>“Yes, Father,” Virgil replied. He didn’t know what else to say.</p><p>“May I borrow Virgil for a moment?” Penelope asked, her knuckles turning white from how tightly she clasped her hands.</p><p>“Of course,” Dad said, offering his arm to Grandma. “I intend on having a look around myself. I want to see what all the fuss is about with this new artist.”</p><p>Grandma gave Virgil’s arm one last squeeze before letting go. Scott patted him on the back as he passed. They’d talk later, no doubt.</p><p>Virgil didn’t have a chance to lower his arm before Penelope’s hand landed there, her pink nails stark against the black fabric of his tux. She touched him lightly, like she wasn’t sure he’d welcome it.</p><p>“Let’s take a turn about the room, shall we?” she said, steering him.</p><p>Virgil swallowed thickly and went with her. She was close enough to him that her perfume filled his lungs. The scent made him want to bury his nose in the crook of her neck where that wisteria musk would blend with the smell of her skin. He wouldn’t dare, though. His insides were a jumbled mess of desire and hurt and confusion. He hardly knew what to make of this party, expecting to have the rug pulled up from under his feet any minute.</p><p>“Oh look, there’s Dr. Horatio Beaker,” Penelope said. “He’s already paid for <em>In the Garden</em>, but he generously is allowing us to display the painting for another hour before he brings it home with him.”</p><p>His heart lurched painfully. Paid for... someone bought one of <em>his</em> paintings?</p><p>“Ah. Lady Penelope,” Dr. Beaker said, turning to face her. He was an older gentleman dressed in a smart if not odd brown suit, seemingly oblivious to the trend of black tuxes in the room. Beaker’s combover did nothing to hide his baldness. Virgil had never seen anyone with such bulging eyes before.</p><p>“Are you pleased with your purchase? <em>In the Garden</em> is one of my personal favorites,” Penelope said.</p><p>“Satisfactory... most satisfactory,” Dr. Beaker said, looking quite pleased. “It makes me feel as if I’m back home with Cousin Felicity in my mum’s garden. We had quite an impressive one, I should say. One tends to forget the very best of childhood if one’s not careful. I decided I should like a reminder. It speaks to my soul.”</p><p>“I quite agree, Dr. Beaker,” Penelope said, looking up at the painting with unmistakable affection. “What do you think, Virgil? Does the artist remind you of your own garden memories?”</p><p>Virgil struggled around his surprise. He’d only been thinking of Penelope when he had painted this one. To think that someone else—some stranger—would find personal meaning in what he had painted with only one person in mind. When he realized Dr. Beaker and Penelope were waiting for his answer, he choked out, “We didn’t have a garden, growing up. So no, not really.”</p><p>Dr. Beaker gasped. “No garden? That’s a travesty. How ever did you manage?” Before Virgil could answer, he continued. “Nevermind, young man. Just soak in those brushstrokes. Before you know it, you will be transported.”</p><p>Having someone talk about his art this way—as if he were a magician—filled Virgil with warmth. He couldn’t help but grin and shake Dr. Beaker’s hand before they left him.</p><p>“Lady Penelope,” called Sir Jeremy Hodge, waiting them both down. “Virgil! Will you look at this? I have the perfect place in my home to hang this. The wife will love it.”</p><p>Virgil sucked in his breath. Sir Jeremy Hodge was having <em>One More Cup</em> wrapped up to bring home with him.</p><p>“You have excellent taste, Sir Jeremy,” Penelope said softly.</p><p>“I say, the lipstick print is the best part,” Sir Jeremy added, waggling his brows. “Makes you feel like you could reach into the canvas and pluck that cup before the little lady returns to finish her cuppa.”</p><p>Penelope introduced him to guest after guest. She always steered the conversation to the paintings. He had braced himself for criticism—there was no way he could please everyone. But suggestions never came. An art critic from Wales praised Virgil’s color choice in <em>A Night in Monte Carlo</em>. A gallery owner in Oxford bought five of the palm tree paintings for her summer house in Florida. <em>A New Dawn</em> drew in admirers like a magnet. Reginald was quite busy selling each piece and ensuring it was wrapped up securely.</p><p>A pang of longing filled him as he wandered through the room. He wanted them to know who he was. He wanted Dr. Beaker to know <em>he</em> created the painting that reminded him of his childhood. Sir Jeremy would find it amusing, at the very least, that Jeff’s son had painted an intriguing still-life. There was security in knowing he was safe—that International Rescue could not be compromised by this event, that no one would guess he was the mysterious V.T.—all thanks to one clever woman. But why had she done it?</p><p>“Enough,” he whispered, before she could introduce him to another art critic. “That’s enough, Penny.”</p><p>Penelope stiffened. Her hand on his arm tightened. She pulled him to the center of the room where, oddly enough, they had some semblance of privacy.“Are you happy?” she asked. “Is this everything you could have wanted?”</p><p>Her questions drew him up short. Was he? Virgil felt the burning sensation in the back of his throat, which usually preceded tears. He took a deep breath to clear it. “I don’t know how to put it into words. I’ve never... I didn’t think people would feel this way about my art. I only hoped they would.”</p><p>“It’s the truth,” Penelope said. Her hand slipped off his arm so she could stand in front of him, looking up into his face. “I may have done all I could to bring them here today, but their reactions to your work are entirely their own. You are incredibly talented. And now, the world knows it.”</p><p>A shiver of pleasure rolled through him. True, his identity was a secret still. But his paintings would be all gone by the end of the night, this time never to return to Tracy Villa. But he knew now that his art was wanted. Did his mother feel like this when she sold her paintings—a mixture of sadness and aching pride? “I don’t know how to thank you,” he said.</p><p>Penelope sighed. Her expression was carefully blank. “It’s what I should have done in the first place.”</p><p>He wanted to tuck his fingers under her mask and pull it off. He needed to her, the <em>real</em> her, underneath that cold, frozen face she wore. “Penny,” he said, her nickname heavy on his tongue, “why did you buy my paintings?”</p><p>“You already know,” she said coldly. Her arms wrapped around herself, nails digging into her arms.</p><p>Virgil’s mouth went dry. She could keep her face as still as a pond at twilight, not a ripple of emotion, but she couldn’t hide the hollow rise and fall of her breath or the white-knuckled grip on her arms. “I was wrong, wasn’t I? Please, Penny. Tell me why.”</p><p>Slowly, the mask slipped. Penelope’s face changed. Lines of worry bracketed her lips. Her eyes were glassy. Her throat worked, like she was fighting back a storm inside her. “Because, dear boy, I wanted them all for <em>myself</em>.”</p><p>Virgil felt his breath leave his lungs in a rush, like she’d slammed the heel of her hand into his gut.</p><p>Her chin tucked into her chest. But she looked up at him through her thick eyelashes. Forcing herself. “I fancy you,” she said crisply. One of her hands reached for him, but it stopped midway, hovering between them.</p><p>Then she turned and pushed her way through the crowd to the door.</p><p>She had, in fact, pulled the rug out from under his feet. But not the way he had expected. He dragged his hands over his face. The mint walls warped around him. His heart beat in a painful rhythm, trying to squeeze between his ribs. She hadn’t been serving International Rescue when she had stumbled upon <em>Victory</em> months ago. She’d been a woman in love, greedy for whatever she could have of him. This whole time...</p><p>Then there was Scott and Dad, suddenly there, talking to him. Telling him to come meet this person, have a drink, listen to what was being said about his work.</p><p>Virgil heard himself respond to them. He let them pull him this way and that. But he kept watching for Penny, waiting for her to return. She <em>had</em> to. He was boiling over.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Penelope Creighton-Ward was a coward—which would explain why she was hiding in the pantry. She sat on a wooden box packed with buttery crackers for the hor d’oeuvres. She drew her legs to her chest like a child and sat in the dark.</p><p>Her muscles felt tight, frozen in place, and she wasn’t sure if she would ever move again. Her mind crystallized that moment when she told Virgil she fancied him. She had almost said “love,” but drew it back into her herself at the last minute; it didn’t seem like the best word, not when he’d believed one thing about her and was told quite a different story now. He needed time to digest these revelations.</p><p>The pantry door opened a sliver, revealing Lillian with a cigarette dangling from her lips. “If ‘e comes down ‘ere, I’m telling ‘im where you are,” she warned.</p><p>“Oh please don’t,” Penelope said, hugging her legs. “All Virgil needs to know is that I’m indisposed. We won’t talk again tonight.”</p><p>“Bugger that! You told ‘im you fancied ‘im,” Lillian said, blowing a huff of smoke. “‘E’d ‘ave to ‘ave noodles for bones if ‘e didn’t want to chase you down for a good snog after that.”</p><p>Penelope’s spine tingled at the thought. It would have been improper for him to have kissed her right there in front of her guests. Still, she let herself imagine it for a moment—if Virgil had broken his own reserved personality to pull her against him and press his mouth against hers. Heat pooled in her belly. She wanted him, badly. But she had nerves of steel. She wouldn’t run back upstairs and shove her tongue in his mouth. She was a lady, after all.</p><p>“This isn’t just about me,” Penelope said, brows furrowed. “His family is up there. Jeff and the boys. All they know is that Virgil and I created a secure way for him to sell his paintings without compromising his identity. They’re happy and fooled, just as we planned it. Let him see how talented he is. I cannot be there to distract him from realizing that.”</p><p>“You’re bein’ mighty stubborn, m’lady,” Lillian said, turning her head to exhale another stream of smoke.</p><p>“It’s one of my finer qualities,” Penelope said.</p><p>Lillian’s face screwed up. Then she plucked the cigarette out of her mouth and waggled it at her. “You may be my employer, m’lady, but if ‘e finds ‘imself in my kitchen, I’ll show ‘im to the pantry.”</p><p>Penelope didn’t even bother threatening her with termination; she couldn’t live without Lillian’s cooking. “Very well,” she replied with a weary sigh. “But only if he finds the kitchen on his own. You’re not to go up there and bring him down.”</p><p>“As if I have time!” Lillian let out a dry chuckle. “Not with dozens of tarts needin’ bakin’.”</p><p>Penelope waited until Lillian shut the door again and buried her face in her knees. Her breathing slowed as time passed. She listened to Lillian shouting orders to the serving staff they’d hired for the evening. They’d used the company before, known for their discretion: no one would dare let even a whisper slip upstairs about their employer hiding in a pantry.</p><p>She tried not to think about Virgil. He was like a lingering cold, making her throat ache and her eyes watery. Right now, he was witnessing how loved he was—by his family, by strangers. By herself, even though she had tucked herself out of sight.</p><p>Her stomach rolled when she thought of all her paintings leaving her, one by one.</p><p>Penelope lost track of time. A flurry of activity erupted in the kitchen as dirty plates and used glasses returned for a good washing. Someone cranked up the radio and a few voices joined in to sing along, off-key but earnest. Then, a little later, good nights were exchanged, hands shaken, and the kitchen wiped down and pristine again until tomorrow morning.</p><p>When the door opened again, it was Parker.</p><p>“Is the exhibit over?” Penelope said, yawning. Her jaw cracked. She was so tired and her back hurt from curling into herself.</p><p>“All cleared out, m’lady,” Parker said, opening the door wide.</p><p>“How long did Virgil stay?” she asked.</p><p>Parker’s expression softened. He offered a hand to help pull her to her feet. “‘Till the very end, m’lady. ‘E wouldn’t leave until the last paintin’ ‘ad sold.”</p><p>The last painting. Gone. Penelope nodded, swallowing hard.</p><p>“‘E kept asking for you,” Parker added. “Wonderin’ when you’d return. What a sorry state you left ‘im in. ‘E looked as if ‘e would jump out of ‘is skin.”</p><p>Her heart pounded. She smoothed the wrinkles in her dress. “You didn’t betray me like Lillian threatened to do. For that, I’m grateful, Parker.”</p><p>“I would never,” he said, offended. “I made your apologies to Mr. Tracy. Said you were indisposed but wished them a safe journey ‘ome.”</p><p>Penelope squeezed Parker’s shoulder with a smile. “Well done, Parker.”</p><p>Parker, while pleased by the compliment, seemed conflicted. “As you say. Would you like to see the gallery? It’s... it’s barren now, I should say.”</p><p>She nodded. “I’ll see myself there. You and Lillian get some sleep. It’s been a long day.”</p><p>Lillian, smoking her last cigarette of the night, said nothing. But gave her a glance full of affection and pity.</p><p>Her family. She loved them both so much. Penelope left the warm, comforting kitchen behind and walked on me ore among the ghosts of her heritage. So many priceless heirlooms, none of them quite feeling like hers. They belonged to the Creighton-Wards of the past. The only things she owned that felt truly hers were her clothes and Virgil’s paintings—but now she didn’t have him anymore. Her sheets had been washed days ago, and they smelled like the same old detergent. All traces of Virgil in her mansion were gone.</p><p>Penelope made her way quietly to the gallery. Her toes barely made a noise on the old wooden floorboards. Her hand on the knob twisted sharply. Then the small cry from her lips when she flicked on the light.</p><p>Empty.</p><p>She turned in a slow circle, dragging her gaze over each mint-green slice of wall without Virgil’s art hanging on them. <em>Victory</em> no longer held the place of honor over the fireplace—it was back with Alan. Where it belonged. Her heavy breathing seemed to echo in the room.</p><p>She drifted to the chaise lounge, now returned to its rightful spot in the center of the room. She stroked the faux-fur absently. Her knees wobbled, but she stayed standing.</p><p>Never before she had felt such a terrible ache. For objects! They were just paintings, weren’t they? Genius brushstrokes on canvas, but in the end, just paint. That’s all. What did they matter to her? She was rich. She could buy whatever she wanted.</p><p>Tears burned her eyes. She lied to herself again. She had no real power. If she had, she would have been able to keep all of his artwork. If she was really the great Creighton-Ward the world thought she was, she wouldn’t have been standing in an empty room with her heart bleeding out.</p><p>Virgil Tracy was really gone now—from her walls, from her sheets, from her life. Unless he decided he wanted her still. It was up to him, really.</p><p>Not very long ago, Penelope thought the Duchess of Royston had been foolish to gamble her last pence. Yet here she was, having gambled not only the paintings she loved so dearly, but her very own heart, on the chance that Virgil would want her after she patched up her mistakes.</p><p>Would she win? Or would she be left with empty hands? Penelope let out a shuddering exhale. Only time would tell.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I finally squeezed the last applicable lyrics out of Young the Giant’s “Art Exhibit,” so this chapter title is from The Hush Sound’s “The Artist.” </p><p>Lots of tears, self-pity, and yearning in this chapter. Fun stuff! I’m in the middle of watching Supercar, which I LOVE actually (to my surprise and maybe everyone else’s). After seeing an episode called “A Little Art,” where we find out Dr. Beaker is actually an art snob, I HAD to include him in the party scene. Also threw in a “What goes on?” - because no matter which Anderson show I’m watching, that line always gets me. </p><p>Also shout out to Wickfens, the store Penelope shopped at in “The Stately Homes Robberies” from TB 1965. </p><p>So, I’m pretty sure now that we only have two more chapters to go before this fic is over. I cannot believe it!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. If You’re Never Gonna Move</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which Virgil comes clean to his family about selling his paintings. And Penelope takes out her feelings on two thieves. And Virgil doesn’t rest until he finishes the most exquisite gift he can think of to heal not only Penny’s heart, but his own.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Virgil knew he was in for a sleepless night. On his back, hands braced behind his head, he looked up at the ceiling. Like every night before, it offered him no answers. <em>I fancy you</em>, she said. Just like that. With all the simplicity of talking about the weather. But he’d seen how much that one sentence cost her. The white of her knuckles, the crack in her mask. Her confession had come with a heavy price: the loss of her composure. So she had run from him.</p><p>Virgil grimaced. He’d never seen Penelope retreat before. He never imagined having that kind of power over someone’s heart.</p><p>The art exhibit, as she’d called it, had turned him inside out so his bones and muscles were showing. His pumping heart in full view for everyone to see and judge. But the judging had been surprisingly kind. He had been surrounded by notorious art critics not only from England, but around the world. While he was pretending to be just another guest admiring V.T.’s work, he soaked in the numerous compliments and almost bit his own tongue trying not to say it was him. <em>He</em> was V.T. The words caught in his throat like barbs.</p><p>He’d let Penelope have her way—and it never felt so wrong before. To be fair, the Creighton-Ward mansion was still unfamiliar to him. Penelope hadn’t let him and his brother wander past the main lounge on their visits. So he’d searched for her blindly, getting only far enough before Parker dragged him back into the mint gallery. At the same time, he let his family keep believing in Penelope’s beautiful lie about the selling of his paintings.</p><p>Virgil fidgeted uneasily. If he could just accept that gift of hers. But something didn’t sit right with him. He couldn’t live with only her and John knowing the truth.</p><p>After a few minutes, Virgil smelled something sweet. He sat up in bed, heart pounding from the sudden movement. It couldn’t be. “Scott,” he muttered, kicking off the sheets. What was his older brother doing awake tonight of all nights? He should have been blissfully sleeping of the party like everyone else.</p><p>Scott only baked when he was stressed. What could possibly be stressing him out? “I’m the one with the problems,” Virgil whispered, throwing on his robe.</p><p>He walked through the dark villa, knowing his way. The kitchen was well-lit. Inside, Scott was making more noise than usual.</p><p>Virgil’s eyes stung from the light as he stepped through the doorway. To him, the kitchen had always felt playful, with the warm and cool colors on the walls commingling and each cabinet above the countertops painted in a different color like beads on a necklace.</p><p>Scott was the only Tracy who refused to wear robes; he claimed he ran hot and a robe was one layer too many for him. So Scott baked in his favorite navy blue pajamas with one of Grandma’s aprons for protection. Shortbread cookies inside baked in the oven, each one shaped like a silver dollar with a crust of walnut crumbs on the rims. The air smelled strangely delicious—he couldn’t pick out what these cookies were made of, exactly.</p><p>“What is that?” Virgil said, sniffing loudly.</p><p>Scott hovered over a cutting board covered in walnuts. He’d given up on using a knife and held a little hammer in his hand. He swung the hammer and broke a walnut into tiny pieces. “Roasted walnut and miso shortbread,” he muttered, aiming for another cluster of walnuts on the board. “That’s the first batch in the oven. I’m making another.”</p><p>“Why?” Virgil blurted. As in: <em>why are you baking another round of cookies? What could be eating you?</em></p><p>Scott scowled. “The party should have fixed everything. But it didn’t. I don’t understand.”</p><p>“What do you mean, ‘fixed everything?’”</p><p>“I didn’t believe her when she said you’d come up with the idea of the art exhibit together. You were too surprised by it,” Scott said, smashing more walnuts.</p><p>Virgil’s pulse quickened. There was his older brother, trying to dig up all the answers in the world. “You’re right. I didn’t know about the party.”</p><p>“I knew it.” Scott looked smug. “Seemed to me that Penelope was making a grand gesture. To <em>you</em>. But when why did the night end the way it did? She just disappeared.”</p><p>“You heard Parker,” Virgil said, swallowing thickly. “She was indisposed.”</p><p>“And Thunderbird 1 is turtle-slow,” Scott muttered.</p><p>Virgil breathed deeply. The shortbread cookies with their salty-miso notes snuck into his lungs. He could keep lying. Take the molecule of truth he’d let out about the party and pad it with more lies. But he felt as responsible for Scott’s wellbeing as Scott felt for his. It was time to come clean. Completely.</p><p>Virgil crossed the room to the telecall machine that rarely was used, but cleverly shoved into the kitchen in case Grandma or Kyrano needed to be reached in a hurry. He played with the switches and opened the line to Thunderbird 5.</p><p>Scott raised an eyebrow. “Why are you calling John?”</p><p>“Just keep baking,” Virgil said.</p><p>Scott huffed. He left the walnuts to peek inside his bowl of dough. “You shouldn’t even be here,” he mumbled, poking the dough. “Privacy isn’t sacred, huh.”</p><p>Virgil resisted laughing. Scott wouldn’t know what privacy was—not when he thought his brothers were in trouble. Locked doors? They didn’t mean no for him.</p><p>The screen flickered on, revealing a rare sight: John pulled from his bed. He wore a brown, triangle-patterned robe over pale blue pajamas. A pillow crease marked his cheek. His white-blonde hair stood on end. “Virgil?” John asked, his voice rough with sleep. “How was the party?”</p><p>Virgil smiled. If John was annoyed about being woken up, he didn’t show it. “I’m telling Scott. Figured you’d want to be part of it.”</p><p>“Tell me what?” Scott said, his voice like a knife.</p><p>John’s eyes widened. “Gee, are you sure?”</p><p>Virgil exhaled. He felt that breath leave his body, all the way down to his toes. “It’s time.”</p><p>Scott crossed his arms over his chest and planted his feet firmly on the floor. He was formidable—and more than a little offended that John had been keeping a secret that he had every right to have known upon its conception</p><p>Virgil felt the words slide up through his throat, sit on his tongue. He just wanted for all the secrets to be over. He was tired, so tired, of lying. “The truth is,” he said, licking his lips, “I’ve been secretly selling my paintings over the last few months.”</p><p>Scott’s eyebrows scrunched. “What?”</p><p>“It started with <em>Victory</em>. I was tired of Alan giving me a hard time about it. He had been pretty clear that he hated that painting. And I wondered if maybe someone else might want to take his ugly mug home if I tried selling it,” Virgil said with a wry smile. “It ended up selling to a mystery buyer in England. I kept my identity a secret and she kept hers secret too. Reginald wanted me to create more art to sell to her, and so I kept up with the demand.”</p><p>“All those paintings you cranked out,” Scott muttered. “The sudden burst of inspiration you seemed to have. That explains it.”</p><p>“Penelope explains that part,” Virgil said with a shrug. He felt achy all over, thinking of her. “While I was selling to the mystery buyer, I was... falling for Penelope. She inspired me. Every new painting was about her.”</p><p>“Oh,” John whispered, riveted.</p><p>“Then why did Penelope have all your paintings?” Scott asked.</p><p>“Because she turned out to be the mystery buyer,” Virgil said, rubbing his face. “Somehow, she’d seen <em>Victory</em> hanging in Reginald’s gallery and figured out what I was up to. She posed as the mystery buyer and bought all the paintings. I only found out about it when you sent me to the mansion for my shore leave.”</p><p>Scott gasped. “That’s why you came home early! You found out and you were upset.”</p><p>“That and more,” Virgil said, not even trying to hide the anguish in his voice. “I didn’t understand at the time... but I think... well, she didn’t want me to see her break. So she hid behind her mask and let me accuse her of things she didn’t do. She let me believe the worst of her.”</p><p>Scott reached for the mixing bowl, never taking his eyes off Virgil. “What did you accuse her of?”</p><p>Virgil’s eyes dropped to his feet. “Of only buying the paintings to protect International Rescue.”</p><p>“Can’t blame you for thinking that,” Scott said, carrying the bowl over to the part of the counter already set up for rolling and cutting. “It’s part of her job to make sure no one finds out who we really are.”</p><p>“I was wrong,” Virgil croaked. God, he was such a mess. Barely holding himself together. “She said as much today, during the party.”</p><p>“What did she tell you?” John asked. He sounded more awake, but that pillow crease ran like a thunderbolt across his cheek.</p><p>Virgil rubbed his face again. His skin felt tight. His stomach coiled like a spring. “She bought the paintings because she had to have them. Because she ‘fancies’ me.”</p><p>Scott whistled. Then he cursed. “Wait, but... she ran off. Abandoned her own party. What did you say to her?”</p><p>“Nothing,” Virgil said. “She wouldn’t let me. She just left me there.”</p><p>Scott dumped the dough out and worked on rolling them into logs. He raised a hand before Virgil could argue. “I saw, Virg. I know you tried tracking her down.”</p><p>“I should have tried harder to find her,” Virgil said. He could have searched every inch of the mansion, leaving no broom closet or cubby unturned. He should have begged Parker to show him where she was hiding. Maybe Parker would have given in if he had looked as pathetic as he had felt. </p><p>But the art exhibit had been its own sweet poison. He had drowned in his own emotions. The gallery had been filled with people who loved his artwork. All around him, they admired and talked about his paintings. One by one, the paintings sold. He had felt, even with Penny’s confession wrapped around his heart, that he was in a bubble that would pop if he stepped wrong.</p><p>“If Penny doesn’t want to be found, you wont find her,” came a new voice at the door. <em>Dad</em>.</p><p>Virgil stilled. He turned. Met his father’s gaze.</p><p>Dad had an annoying habit of being impeccably groomed. He was a model of perfection for his sons. Not a silver hair out of place. No drool or pillow creases. His silk teal pajamas and outlandish robe (it looked like plaid from far away, but was really a strange collection of blue, brown, and red blotches) held no wrinkles.</p><p>The same couldn’t be said for the parade of Tracys and friends behind him. Gordon yawned into his fist, his hair flattened on one side. Alan and Tin-Tin, equally sleep-mussed, nevertheless watched the proceedings with interest. Brains took off his glasses to rub his eyes, while Grandma looked worried, her hair loose down her back in snarls.</p><p>Scott was the first to react. Badly. “For Pete’s sake,” he said, slapping a baking tray on the table. “What goes on here? Can’t a fella bake in peace?”</p><p>“I respectfully disagree, son,” Dad said, his mouth twitching. “Perhaps you want to consider sharing with your brothers since your late-night projects are making a dent in the weekly food bill.”</p><p>Scott muttered something unintelligible. He glanced at the oven. “They’ll be ready in ten minutes.”</p><p>Dad stepped into the room, opening the way for the others to settle in the kitchen. Alan and Tin-Tin took seats at the kitchen table. Gordon pulled out a chair for Grandma to sit on, then stood behind her, leaning on the chair back. Brains made himself useful by the oven, checking the temperature and watching the cookies bake.</p><p>“Now,” Dad said, zeroing in on Virgil,“what I want to know is why you snuck around behind our backs to sell your art.”</p><p>Virgil’s hands felt clammy. He wiped them on the front of his robe. There was no escape from the truth now. Hadn’t he wanted this? To come clean? His voice wobbled when he said, “Because... because I wanted to achieve something outside of International Rescue.”</p><p>Dad’s expression softened. “Virgil, you don’t have anything to prove.”</p><p>“Yes, I do,” he said, cutting the air with his hand. He felt himself unraveling. Pent-up emotions seemed to rise up from his pores, making him tremble with the force of his feelings. “Everyone in this room made their marks on the world except for me. Dad, I never had the chance. I was too slow, I guess. I never found out for myself what I could do.”</p><p>Before his father could interject, he shook his head. “Scott was decorated for valor in the Air Force. He earned enough medals to weigh down the front of his uniform. Alan’s a speed demon on the race track—and he’s still winning trophies and prizes with on sign of slowing down. John here discovered a quasar system and published books on astronomy.” Virgil cleared his throat and turned to Gordon. “Gordon invented an underwater breathing apparatus that’s saved our skin more times than I can count. Who knows what he accomplished in WASP?”</p><p>“That’s confidential,” Gordon murmured with an apologetic shrug.</p><p>Virgil nodded, understanding. Gordon, for all his chaotic energy, had never let a WASP secret slip in years. Same with Scott and the Air Force. He came back to the point, the reason why he was singling out each of his brothers. “What have I done with my life, outside of International Rescue?”</p><p>At first, no one in the room answered. How could they have? He knew he was making his point. Virgil had his diploma from the Denver School of Advanced Technology, a talent in piano playing he only used at home, and paintings that were only collecting dust in the villa before he decided to do something with them.</p><p>“It’s not anyone’s fault,” Virgil added quietly. He didn’t want to point fingers. His brothers had made decisions before International Rescue and after, had known what they wanted and went for it. They made their marks on the world just in time. He’d somehow let that window of time pass him by. Had he been so focused on studying, so absorbed in the mundane rhythms of campus life that he hadn’t noticed the hourglass emptying?</p><p>“But I have regrets,” he said. “Mother—“ he choked on her name, his heart hurting, “Mother wasn’t afraid of her own talent. She performed in concerts. She sold her art with pride, didn’t she, Dad? I carry that part of her in me but I never did anything with it.”</p><p>Scott went deadly quiet, the way he did when he was in Big Brother mode. But he couldn’t supersede Dad’s authority here. They all looked at Jeff, waiting for what would come.</p><p>Virgil watched his father’s expression change. Hard-earned, living lines faded into softness. His throat bobbed. Was Jeff Tracy holding back tears? His father wasn’t emotionless, but he hadn’t cried since they were little.</p><p>“Your mother was the most talented person I had the privilege of loving,” Dad said, his craggy voice thick with emotion. “Maybe it is my fault that you’ve come to this point. Out of five sons, you were the only one to have gotten so much of Lucy. I thought I knew how to nurture that. Maybe I failed.”</p><p>“Dad,” Virgil said, his pulse loud in his ears.</p><p>“There’s room for you in the world, Virgil Tracy,” Dad said, his voice strong and warm. “International Rescue will always be our first priority, but it’s clear to me that if you sell your art using your name, revealing who you are, it isn’t going to endanger our organization any more than Alan’s racing would. If you want to do this, I fully support you.”</p><p>“You know I already do,” John said from the telecall machine.</p><p>“We all do,” Scott amended.</p><p>The kitchen timer dinged. Brains pushed his glasses up his nose. “I b-believe the cookies are done.”</p><p>Virgil felt warm all over, patches of heat blooming under his skin. He’d always known his family loved him, but to have the full-force of it upon him, right when he was feeling lost and wound too tight? There would be time now. He would talk with Dad, with his brothers, an iron out how they would make his long-buried dream come true.</p><p>Closing the distance between him and his father, Virgil held out his hand for a shake.</p><p>Dad rolled his eyes and pulled Virgil in for a hug instead.</p><p>Virgil sunk into his father’s embrace. Around him, he heard Scott shooing his brothers’ away from the oven, slapping hands that tried to reach too early for a cookie.</p><p>“Are you sure you don’t want to become a concert pianist too, while we’re on the subject?” Dad asked, pulling back to look at Virgil’s face. “You could be the next Cass Carnaby.”</p><p>“No thanks,” Virgil said with a soft laugh. For him, the piano was catharsis. He wrung pleasure from playing with the keys in the lounge, entertaining his brothers, turning his feelings into sound.</p><p>“What about Penny?” Dad asked.</p><p>Virgil sucked in his breath. “I love her.”</p><p>Dad nodded, as if he’d already known and had made his peace with the fact. No doubt he’d overheard that part of the conversation before he revealed himself. “What are you going to do about it?”</p><p>“Make things right,” Virgil said. “She wanted to keep my paintings. She only gave them up to prove to me that I can be a successful artist.”</p><p>“Are you going to buy them all back?” Dad asked, raising an eyebrow.</p><p>Virgil grimaced. “They’re gone now.” He’d been thinking of what he could do. How he could try and make up for her sacrifice. Time was what he needed, though he knew he didn’t have much of it. “She’ll have her gallery of V.T.’s paintings again, if she still wants it.”</p><p>“You can’t have her wait that long,” Dad said.</p><p>“I know, I know,” he said, rubbing his lower jaw. “Just one painting, Dad. I’ll make something just for her. As a promise.”</p><p>Dad nodded, warming to the idea. “You still have another week of shore leave. No distractions. Think you can whip up quality art in that amount of time?”</p><p>“I <em>have</em> to,” Virgil said, his jaw tight. He wouldn’t be sleeping anyway. His mind was already running at full speed, searching for an idea of what to paint for Penelope. He’d find it—and he’d pin it down on canvas before the week was out. His future with Penelope was depended on making it right. Failure wasn’t an option.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>On her orders, Parker pulled over at the site of the accident. The sedan was in flames after a few well-placed bullets, but the loss of their transport didn’t stop the two thieves from crawling out of the wreckage with their switchblades out. How foolish of them. Penelope was in the mood for a tussle.</p><p>“Gentlemen,” she said, emerging from FAB 1 with exaggerated grace. Her leather boots found purchase on the salted roadway. The snowfall was light but wicked thanks to the wind pushing it this way and that. Her hair whipped around her like a storm, stinging her face wherever the strands landed. She aimed her gun at them and tilted her head. “I believe you have something that belongs to Professor Popkiss. If you wanted a reward for finding the professor’s missing blueprints, you could have asked him. I don’t think he appreciated being trapped in an elevator shaft while you made off with those plans.”</p><p>“Back away, lady, if you don’t want to get hurt,” said one of the thieves, brandishing his blade.</p><p>Penelope let out a silent laugh, lashing her own face with her hot breath. Hurt? She was already hurting. Her insides were chafed from unending anxiety and self-pity. These men couldn’t do any worse to her than she’s done to herself. “I’m only going to ask one more time. Please hand over the blueprints.”</p><p>Instead of obeying her reasonable order, both men charged her.</p><p>From inside FAB 1, Parker hit the button for the smoke release. FAB 1 emitted thick smoke that enveloped the area within seconds.</p><p>Penelope moved easily in the smokescreen, spotting the shadowy form of the first thief stumble his way into her web. Although she was the strong arm of International Rescue, shooting to kill was not an option Jeff Tracy approved of. She should have shot to wound, to end the fight and bring back the blueprints in a timely manner, but her body felt overly-full of anxious energy she needed to release.</p><p>She put her gun away and grabbed the charging thief by his left wrist, yanking the man into the air with his own momentum. The thief squealed like a stuck pig when he landed on the concrete.</p><p>The second thief caught her by surprise, slicing through her coat sleeve and drawing blood on her forearm. The fresh sting from the cut pulled a gasp from her lungs. Her blood dripped on the road as she swung around and locked the man in a chokehold.</p><p>“Let me go,” the thief choked, stupidly pressing his throat against her arm, cutting off more of his air. He tried to stomp on her feet and pull at her arms, but Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward was made of steel and cool fury.</p><p>“The plans,” Penelope growled into the man’s ear.</p><p>After another attempt at struggling, the man made a wheezing sound and pulled the blueprints from his back pocket, where they’d been badly crushed. Poor Professor Popkiss. He’d have to draw up new plans unless he could safely steam the wrinkles out of these papers. Just for that, Penelope shoved him onto the ground and the sharp heel of her boot into his spine as he writhed on the ground.</p><p>“Parker, tie them up. We have a delivery to make to the local police station,” she said.</p><p>“Yes, m’lady,” Parker said, leaving FAB 1 with the necessary equipment.</p><p>Penelope stood back as the smoke began to dissipate, giving her a clear view of Parker yanking the thieves’ hands behind their backs to truss them up for delivery. Her own wrists itched, thinking of the ties binding her, and a thrill ran through her bones. Penelope sighed. Time to put that curious feeling away, along with the rest of her hurts. None of it would do her any good. She just needed to focus on her job and drink copious amounts of tea in between assignments.</p><p>Parker glanced up at her and balked. “You’re bleedin’, m’lady! Let me get the first aid kit.”</p><p>But Penelope heard the roar of Thunderbird 2’s engines in the distance as it came near. She ignored her dripping forearm and pulled out her compact.</p><p>Scott’s face flickered on screen. “Did you get the blueprints, Lady Penelope?”</p><p>“Like taking candy for a baby,” Penelope said, watching with satisfaction as one of the thieves started blubbering. “How is Professor Popkiss?”</p><p>“Shaken but unharmed. We got to him in time,” Scott said. “Alan took him back to his hotel room at the conference. Now we just have to get those plans back to him and we’re done.”</p><p>“I’ll deliver them myself to Virgil,” Penelope said, watching Thunderbird 2 land on the roadside, settling like a giant green bird.</p><p>Scott’s brows raised. “But Lady—”</p><p>“Tell him to open the Pod so Parker can drive FAB 1 inside. I’ll be there in a moment myself,” she said, flipping the compact closed. “Parker, I’m going to hand over the plans and get my arm patched up. When you have them secured, drive over. It’ll be faster for us to have lift.”</p><p>Parker nodded. “As you say, m’lady.”</p><p>Penelope straightened her spine and made her way to Thunderbird 2. She lengthened her stride to get there faster, the wind licking into her body with each step. Her eyes watered from the cold. Blood ruined her coat sleeve; she knew she was leaving a trail on the concrete, but part of her wanted to look her worst.</p><p>Virgil would take one look at the blood crusting on her sleeve and any tension they’d had gathered would break. Heat pooled her in belly when she imagined the concern filling his brown eyes, the tightening in his jaw at the sight of her dramatic-looking but rather shallow cut.</p><p>The wind couldn’t reach her anymore when she reached the open pod and took the lift up to the pilot’s cabin. Her breathing was too loud to her own ears in the lift.</p><p>As the lift locked into place, reaching its destination, Penelope shoved the blueprints in front of her as if it were her VIP pass. “I brought the professor’s blueprints, Virgil,” she said, her voice shaky. “They’re not in good shape...”</p><p>Her voice died in her throat when she realized that Virgil Tracy wasn’t sitting in the pilot’s seat.</p><p>Tin-Tin was sitting in his seat, wearing her International Rescue uniform. She looked comfortable at the controls, as if she could fly the hulking bird in her sleep. “Penelope,” Tin-Tin said, unbuckling her seatbelt. She took the blueprints from her and saw the blood. “what happened to you?”</p><p>“It’s just a small cut,” Penelope said, tugging her arm away when Tin-Tin leaned in to investigate.</p><p>Tin-Tin’s eyes narrowed. “Come on. Let me get that cleaned up for you before Brains complains about blood stains in the bird.”</p><p>“Where is Virgil?” Penelope asked, unable to help asking.</p><p>Tin-Tin looked at her funny. “He’s still on shore leave. Another three days. I’m filling in for him in the meantime.”</p><p>“Bloody hell,” Penelope muttered under her breath. <em>Of course he was.</em> Before the party, she’d had his shore leave carefully imprinted in her mind, counting the hours. But afterwards—when she’d ran from him and heard nothing in the days afterward—she’d stopped looking at the calendar. There didn’t seem to be much point to it.</p><p>“Yes, blood. A lot of blood,” Tin-Tin replied, apparently hearing her. “Now sit down on the cot. I’m very good at this. Some would say Alan’s a grown man, but he still skins his knees. Guess who cleans up him?”</p><p>“Not Scott, then?” Penelope asked.</p><p>“He’s not fast enough,” Tin-Tin said, with a possessive note. It tugged at Penelope’s heart, her claim on Alan.</p><p>A laboratory had been built in the room behind the pilot’s cabin, presumably to allow Brains to solve International Rescue’s technical problems midair. However, after months of operation, the need to have a place for rescue victims to be patched up and taken care of changed the original intention of the room. Jeff had assured her that all the boys knew first aid basics, and Scott and Virgil had practice in bone-setting, should that be needed. No one trusted Alan to stitch up an open wound, though.</p><p>A metal cabinet housed all of their materials like antiseptic spray and bandages. Tin-Tin pulled open a few drawers while Penelope sat herself on the cot, carved into the wall opposite the door. It was a detachable cot with wheels in case they needed to get a victim quickly into a hospital. The vinyl padding made a poor mattress, though some effort had been made to make it softer with an egg crate and sheets a softer shape of Thunderbird 2’s green.</p><p>“Take off your coat,” Tin-Tin said, uncapping the antiseptic spray.</p><p>Penelope shrugged out of her coat and held out her arm. She had very little dignity left. “How... how is he? Since the party?”</p><p>Tin-Tin mercilessly sprayed the wound.</p><p>Penelope flinched as the cut stung.</p><p>Tin-Tin chewed on her lip, turning Penelope’s arm this way and that. Considering her response. “He hasn’t been sleeping.”</p><p>Penelope swallowed her surprise. <em>Hasn’t he?</em> But she made everything right.</p><p>“No stitches,” Tin-Tin murmured. She grabbed the container of bandages and popped it open. “Look, Penelope, you did a wonderful thing for Virgil. He’s very happy about the paintings finding homes and all the nice things those critics said within earshot. He knew they were being honest since, as you’re aware, they had no idea he was the artist they were all so interested in.”</p><p>Penelope nodded, unable to talk. She should have felt pleased with herself—it’s what she set out to do, to prove to him that he was a great artist. But she felt hollow, only half-glad that he was happy. The other half felt he should be a miserable as she felt. “But you said he’s not sleeping.”</p><p>The corner of Tin-Tin’s mouth rose. “Jeff’s been trying to get him to nap at least during the day, but he refuses. He only sleeps when he can’t hold himself up anymore. He’s like a man possessed.”</p><p>“By what?” Penelope asked, her voice trembling.</p><p>Tin-Tin sighed and fired Penelope’s arm, wrapping the soft bandage with swift, efficient movements. “It’s all about you, Penelope. He’s haunted by you.”</p><p>Penelope let out a wet laugh. It was what she wanted to hear, and yet she couldn’t accept it. “Then why haven’t I heard from him, Tin-Tin?”</p><p>Tin-Tin looked like she wanted to answer. But she bit her lip instead.</p><p>Penelope’s heart lurched. “I admit I did not behave as a good hostess should have at the party,” she said, hollow and stiff with pent-up frustration, “but does that mean I deserve to be ignored?”</p><p>“You were nowhere to be found that night,” Tin-Tin said, her voice laced with fraying patience.</p><p>Penelope pulled her arm away, feeling the heat of shame rise to her cheeks. Tin-Tin was right. She’d hidden like a child afraid of the monster under the bed. In this case, such a monster was love, wrapped in festering forgiveness, and she hadn’t been brave enough to see if Virgil was willing to give her both. How ridiculous emotions were. No wonder her parents didn’t approve of showing them.</p><p>Tin-Tin nearly crushed the container in her hands. “Penelope, if you would just—“</p><p>“No, no you don’t have to say another word.” Penelope slid off the cot, feeling infinitely colder than when she arrived. Whatever he was possessed by, whatever he was working through, it must be his way of purging her from his veins. She’d been too late. She lost him. “I understand perfectly.”</p><p>“You do?” Tin-Tin replied, frowning.</p><p>“Tell him I promise I’ll keep my distance the next time we meet,” she said, each and every word painful to speak. “I’ll try not to let my presence upset him. We do still have to work together. It’s only proper.”</p><p>Tin-Tin made a noise and tossed the container on the floor. “Penelope, <em>no</em>. You don’t—“</p><p>But Penelope had already cut off Scott, and so walking out on whatever Tin-Tin had to say was even easier. She retreated to the lift that would take her back down to the pod. She’d kick the thieves out of FAB 1’s backseat and cocoon herself inside, keeping Tin-Tin and anyone else out for the duration the flight back to Professor Popkiss and the police station.</p><p>She’d heard enough. Now she had to start mending her shredded heart.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>A lightness in his chest, the held breath between one brushstroke and the next, created a fever in Virgil. He felt hot underneath his smock, the roots of his hair sweaty. Still, he painted as if stopping would cause the world crack and shatter around him. He almost drank from his cup of paint-muddied water more than once.</p><p>His family lingered around him, watching quietly as he committed strokes to the canvas. Kyrano supplied him with a steady flow of black coffee, though sometimes Tin-Tin or Scott would be the one to loudly thunk the cup on his table or nudge it up to his lips for a sip.</p><p>Virgil followed the sun each day. He moved his easel into the lounge in the mornings until the sunset blinded him and he had to continue in his room where he turned on every lamp and overhead light. Sometimes John would keep him company during the night via the telecall device; Virgil would look up, crusty-eyed and bone-tired, to catch John with his nose in a paperback, and the sight would strengthen him. He kept going. He had to keep going.</p><p>Grandma supplied him with food, sometimes back rubs, and encouragement that he only half heard. Dad, with stone-solid respect for the house rules, never plucked him from his shore leave early for the rescue missions that came in. He wasn’t sure who was flying Thunderbird 2 and he didn’t care. It was a strange feeling, not caring. But he simply didn’t have room for it in his feverish rush to finish the painting.</p><p>Only once did he stop for something other than a forced nap. The mail plane had delivered the package he ordered. Gordon and Alan had carried it in and wanted to see what it was, but his skin felt like it caught fire as he shooed them out of his room and locked the door on them. Virgil had swallowed hard when he opened the package. His body vibrated, his mouth went dry, when he saw what was inside: a set of four mattress restraints. It was, by far, the strangest order he’d ever placed, and he wasn’t sure he’d get the chance to even use them if he messed everything up with Penelope. But in good faith, he took the restraints to Thunderbird 2 and hid them in the onboard laboratory where no one would find them.</p><p>Then he returned to his painting, working with even more determination than before.</p><p>Tin-Tin and Scott flew to the mainland to pick out a frame that matched the dimensions of the canvas. Virgil slowed down. He switched to smaller brushes. He mixed the blues of the Monte Carlo night sky and named them shades like “captain’s coat” or “midnight hour” as he find the perfect shades. He followed John’s advice, matching colors not with accuracy, but from the way he had felt at the time.</p><p>As he labored over his final touches, another rescue mission ended and the lounge flooded with Tracys.</p><p>“Virgil,” Tin-Tin said, at his elbow.</p><p>He didn’t quite hear her at first. He struggled with a night-cloud, trying to shape it right, and smeared deep blue paint on his jaw as he rubbed it in thought.</p><p>“I saw Penelope,” she said, this time louder.</p><p>Virgil’s hands went to his chest, over his heart—where he wasn’t wearing his smock. Blue paint smudged on his shirt. “What?”</p><p>“You weren’t listening to the briefing, were you?” Tin-Tin sighed and stood next to the easel, her arms crossed. “A professor had been trapped in an elevator while his blueprints were stolen. Penelope got the blueprints back, but she was hurt in the process.”</p><p>Virgil almost snapped his brush. “Hurt?”</p><p>Tin-Tin groaned. “Now don’t... no, <em>stop</em>. Don’t get worked up. It was a shallow cut. Her coat sleeve had taken most of the force. The blade had just grazed her. She’s fine.” Tin-Tin frowned. “Well, not <em>that</em> fine. Virg, she thinks you’ve given up on her. You’re taking too long.”</p><p>His stomach seemed to drop between his legs. “The painting...” he said, his voice cracking.</p><p>“Yes, I know. Art takes time,” Tin-Tin said, her hands fluttering like birds trying to land. “But it looks finished to me now. Put down your brushes and let it dry. You need to take it to her as soon as you can.”</p><p>He wasn’t done yet. There were still so many flaws that needed touch-ups. He hadn’t reached perfection yet. Penelope deserved nothing less than his best.</p><p>Tin-Tin shoved her face in front of his. “Virg! Listen to me.”</p><p>He leaned back, blinking.</p><p>“It’s a gorgeous painting. The best one yet.” Her voice softened. “She’s going to love it. But more than that, she’s going to love seeing <em>you</em> again. You know, when you assure her that you still love her madly, hm?”</p><p>Virgil slowly and with great reluctance set down his brush. He studied his painting, which he was calling <em>Night Rendezvous</em>, and tried to see it with new eyes. Had he captured everything he wanted in it? Was it on par with his other paintings that Penelope had purchased and let go of? Would she be happy to have this one?</p><p>If what Tin-Tin was saying was true, then the answers to his questions would have to be yes.</p><p>“Okay,” he whispered, rubbing his face and smearing more paint on his skin.</p><p>Tin-Tin sighed. “Tomorrow morning. First thing.”</p><p>“He should go now,” Dad said, joining in the conversation. As late as the evening was, Jeff Tracy looked immaculate in his slacks and sweater. Relaxed after monitoring another successful rescue mission.</p><p>Tin-Tin frowned. “Mr. Tracy, shouldn’t he take a shower? Change out his pajamas and clean up before that sort of thing?”</p><p>Dad’s gaze seemed to strip him raw. “No,” he said, with finality. “He should go to her exactly as he is.”</p><p>Tin-Tin made a noise. Her mouth twitched. “Oh. I see.”</p><p>Dad nodded. “Thunderbird 2 has been refueled. If you leave within the hour, you’ll make it to Penny’s by morning.”</p><p>Virgil’s sluggish mind did the calculations. If he left earlier than his father suggested, he could arrive at the Creighton-Ward mansion by dawn. Her favorite time of day. That sent his heart thundering. He shot out of his chair. Touched his face and felt the paint crusting his skin. “Are you sure I shouldn’t...?”</p><p>“Leave it,” Dad said. “Get some food in you so you don’t crash your bird while we take care of painting.”</p><p>Virgil felt like he was doing something wrong by leaving his painting. He trusted his family, but it still felt like a terrible idea. He’d been with his painting from the very first stroke. It felt like his and Penny’s. But his stomach was viciously empty. He was lightheaded. He’d never make it to England in this state.</p><p>Grandma must have overheard, setting out the leftovers from dinner that he had only picked at before running back to his painting. He ate as slowly as he could manage, chewing on the cold chicken and mixed salad and rosemary potatoes that Grandma shoveled into his plate. Slowly, the raw ache in his stomach went away. He felt more awake after his third cup of coffee, now that he actually focused on drinking them.</p><p>“Fly safely,” Grandma said, stroking his hair as she stood behind his chair. “And come back with good news, dear.”</p><p>Virgil drained his glass. “I hope so, Grandma. I hope so.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This is it - the penultimate chapter! Only one more to go and this fanfic will be finished! I’m just so excited about it :)</p><p>This chapter has another Supercar cameo of Professor Popkiss. Yeah, I’m having too much fun sneaking this characters in, but having Penny was a co-MC just widens the world in a way that perhaps writing another ship wouldn’t. </p><p>Anyway, I’m hard at work on this last chapter!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Your Tea Is Cold</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which Penelope can’t sleep so she brews herself tea and takes it out into the snowy garden to watch the dawn. But the dawn brings Virgil with it. Why is he here and what does he have to tell her? </p><p>BTW, if you’re not here for the smut, then stop reading after the first scene concludes. If you are... well, enjoy!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It snowed overnight. Penelope felt the chill creep into the corners of her bedroom, even though the fire crackled steadily on all night. She burrowed under her covers and pressed her hands against her heart. Her heartbeat was sluggish at best. Hurt-heavy. The scene from earlier that day, when she’d dripped blood on her way to Thunderbird 2 only to find Tin-Tin at the helm, bothered her more than she cared to admit. Had she allowed herself a good cry, she night have felt better. But she choked back her sorrow and let it sit like a lump in her belly. Best get used to it. She and Virgil were over.</p><p>She skimmed the edges of sleep. Her eyes had shut and opened again around four in the morning, when the sky was murky blue.</p><p>She wasn’t going back to sleep. “There are only two cures for self-pity,” she murmured into her pillow. “Tea and dawn.”</p><p>Through extreme effort, and the promise of tea, Penelope left her bed. She had gravitated towards one of her favorite nightgowns last night: a powder-blue full-length gown with a slit at the collar and a ribbon tied at the empire waist. The sleeves were extravagant, clinched at the wrists and puffy. She always felt like a princess in that gown, and usually wore it when traveling like on the Anderbad Express. It was the kind of nightgown one did not feel embarrassed to be seen in public wearing.</p><p>Of course she’d worn that nightgown thinking of Virgil. He hadn’t seen her in it since she and Sir Jeremy had been promptly kidnapped in the morning, but the gown still reminded her of him. The prelude to that stolen touch in the tunnels. The touch that started it all, really.</p><p>Even though her day started now, she didn’t want to change out of the nightgown. She freshened up in the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face, and brushed the knots out of her hair. Before leaving her room, she shoved her feet into snow boots.</p><p>Lilian and Parker would still be snoring in their beds. She had no intention of waking them up, not for a self-indulgent tea to ease the pangs in her heart. She moved through the mansion like a ghost, solemnly passing through the morning shadows on her way to the kitchen.</p><p>Her hands were steady now as she put the kettle on. Even though she had Parker and Lilian to see to her needs, she couldn’t call herself a true child of England if she couldn’t brew a proper tea for herself. With a sense of pride, she picked out an herbal rose tea and let it steep no longer than was necessary before pulling the tea infuser out. She stirred in a few cubes of sugar, knowing she’d be drinking the whole pot this morning. Before taking the tea tray outside, she pulled a coat from the peg by the door and slipped it on.</p><p>Two inches of snow covered the The Creighton-Ward grounds. Her face felt numb almost immediately as the cold swallowed her up. No wind meant that the cold was ever-present but not cloying. She could stay out here comfortably enough, just to see the sun rise.</p><p>Her boots crunched as she walked toward the gazebo that was near invisible in the white-blanketed world. Parker had already covered the rose bushes with tarps. It wouldn’t be a pretty sight, but they couldn’t risk losing the roses for vanity. She climbed the gazebo steps, the wood creaking, and set her tray down on the wicker table. Then she settled into the wicker chair.</p><p>Penelope crossed her feet at the ankle and leaned over the tray, pouring herself a cup of streaming rose tea. The saucer rattled in her grip as she brought the cup to her lips. Okay, so it was awfully cold still. Even for her. But she needed this. Her eyelashes fanned her cheeks as she drank the hot tea, letting the flavor soak into her tongue. The sudden heat made her tremble. She set down the saucer and decided to wrap her hands around the teacup alone. Her knuckles were pink. Her breath puffed in heavy clouds from her mouth.</p><p>The sun began to creep along the horizon. A cotton candy sky, some would have called it, with a blending of soft pink and pale blue. The sky reminded her of long ago happy days with her parents, when they took her to Brighton Palace Pier and bought her fairy floss in those very same colors. She sighed and sipped her tea. The colors also reminded her of <em>A New Dawn</em>, one of the paintings she had to give up. Her heart stung. Her lower lip trembled and she stuck out her chin in defiance.</p><p>“Just keep drinking,” she told herself, her voice raw. “It’ll work. It always does. Just give it time.”</p><p>Tea solved everything. <em>Everything</em>. She just hadn’t drank enough of it yet. Penelope drained her cup and plunked it down loudly on the tray. She hefted the pot and spilled some tea on the tray as she hastily poured. Then she forced the tea down as it scalded her throat. There. Better, right? Soon she would be warm inside and out. And the pain would shrink and shrink until it was just another old hurt, a little disappointment.</p><p>Her eyes felt wet, like the tea was leaking out of her that way. Penelope sniffed and wiped her nose on her coat sleeve. How unladylike. She was falling apart at the seams.</p><p>The distant roar of engines seemed like a hallucination at first. Her spine went ramrod-straight. Her fingers turned white as she gripped the teacup.</p><p>Flying against the sun, Thunderbird 2 formed a massive shadow in the sky.</p><p>Penelope might have made a noise. She set the teacup down and stood, her legs working like stilts as she slowly made her way to the gazebo entrance.</p><p>Thunderbird 2 set down a good distance away from the mansion and garden, where it was safe to land and risk burning a few patches of grass in the process. Two massive beech trees, stripped of their leaves, framed the green bird.</p><p>Penelope stepped out of the shelter of the gazebo and crunched into the snow. She curled into her coat.</p><p>There, in the distance, was Virgil. He looked so small under his bird. He walked across the snow. Towards her.</p><p>Penelope drank in every detail of him as he came closer. He wore striped pajamas, probably not very warm by the looks of it, under the same rose-embroidered robe he’d worn during his last visit to the mansion. The tie holding his robe closed had come loose, so the robe dragged in the snow behind him as he walked. He glowed pink in the dawn, hard to see until he was only yards away. And then his face. His face.</p><p>Virgil wore the face of a man who had been tortured. He was bleary-eyed, his steps sure but dragging, his mouth a hard line. The weather colored his cheeks red. A smear of midnight blue paint followed the cut of his jaw. Another curved another his chin, made by a thumb. He carried a bag with him—the kind of bag one used for birthday presents. She saw the corner of a picture frame poking out and her breath caught.</p><p>“Lady Penelope,” he said, stiffly, like he wasn’t sure he had the right to address her.</p><p>She moved then. Her feet took her where she wanted to be. Closer and she could see how thin he had gotten in a week, the lines of his face drawn. He hadn’t been sleeping. He seemed so very upset. “Penny,” she said, correcting him.</p><p>Something flashed in his eyes. “Penny,” he whispered, and she only heard him because she saw the cloud of breath leave his lungs. The shape of his lips forming her name.</p><p>Penelope snatched his free hand before she could think about how improper that was. His hand was warmer than hers, having just come from Thunderbird 2. But when she looked down at it, she noticed flecks of paint on his fingers. Wordlessly, she tugged on his hand, willing him to follow her.</p><p>They settled inside the gazebo. Virgil placed the bag on the table next to the tea. Then he took the wicker chair next to hers and dragged it as close as he could get. Their knees touched. “Tin-Tin said you’d been hurt yesterday,” he said, his eyes flicking over her.</p><p>He’d been worried about her? A curl of pleasure drifted through her. She pulled up her sleeve and showed him her arm. “It’s a shallow cut, see? Healing already. I didn’t need a plaster last night.”</p><p>Virgil didn’t just look. He took her arm and ran his fingers along the seam of the cut, as if testing it. His touch left trails of fire on her skin. Some tension went out of his shoulders.</p><p>Penelope’s breath stopped short when his hand left her arm and kept going; his knuckles brushed against her chest, right over her heart.</p><p>“What about here?” He said in a soft voice. “Are you hurt here?”</p><p>“Yes,” she said, without thinking. Embarrassment came as a chaser. She was supposed to be composed. Admitting her heart was broken, that it lay in pieces in her chest, was too forward of her. And yet—she felt compelled to tell him the truth just then. The corner of her mouth lifted. “It’s not the kind of wound you can slap a plaster on.”</p><p>“Maybe it is. If the plaster is a good one,” Virgil said. The leaned back to grab the bag.</p><p>Penelope knew a painting was inside the bag. She’d seen a corner of the frame. The paint streaks on his face and hands gave it away. So she shouldn’t have been so excited about it. Her body should have sat quite still. Instead, she trembled. Only slightly, imperceptibly, but Virgil noticed. Of course he noticed.</p><p>“Oh,” he whispered, as if suddenly realizing that they were sitting outside in the snow. He reached for her teacup and picked it up, about to hand to her. But then he noticed about the same time as she did that there was no steam spilling from the cup. “Your tea is cold,” he said.</p><p>The tea in the teapot had probably cooled off too by now. She hadn’t covered it with a tea cozy. Normally, at a time like this, she would have stopped everything to ring for Parker—to have him brew a fresh pot a tea to make whatever Virgil had to say go down easier. Tea was as much as habit as it was her emotional crutch. But she couldn’t dare call Parker now. She also couldn’t brew another pot herself because that would mean shattering this scene. Whatever he had to say, she had to brave it by herself.</p><p>“It’s quite all right, Virgil,” she said, lifting her shoulder in a shrug. “Do go on.”</p><p>He reluctantly put down the teacup. His jaw worked as he tried to find his words. While she waited, she wished that tracing the streaks of paint on his face with her tongue wouldn’t have been potentially toxic. It was a temptation that she couldn’t squash down.</p><p>“I’m sorry for everything,” he said simply, stepping off that cliff. His voice went hoarse. “It’s my fault you had to sell all your paintings. Because I didn’t trust you when I found them all in your home. I couldn’t believe that you had just... wanted them. Do you know how impossible that seemed to me?”</p><p>Penelope didn’t. Not really. She thought she had been as obvious as she could have been, showing him how much she enjoyed his company, how close she wanted to be with him. There was the beach and the night before that horrible morning.</p><p>He must have seen her doubt, because he sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Messing it up further. “I’m... I’m not Scott. Okay? I’m not a hotshot pilot who always seems to know how to look like a hero. I don’t have John’s cheerful magnetism or Gordon’s infectious energy. I don’t even know what Alan has but Tin-Tin gravitated to him from the first.” His mouth formed a grim line. “I’m not remarkable enough for someone like you, Penny.”</p><p>Deep inside her chest, a shard of her heart twitched and slid back into place with another piece. She had always assumed that the Tracy boys had healthy egos. They certainly gave that impression to her, and just about anyone else they rescued. But maybe it was just an act, a thin veneer that hid their secret fears away from the world. Away from her.</p><p>“You <em>are</em>,” she said, letting her face relax, showing him she meant it. “Dear boy, you’re remarkable to me.”</p><p>He drank in her expression as if he was starving. His eyes felt hot as they flicked over her mouth, her eyes, the line of her jaw. “How?”</p><p>“Don’t your know?” She took his hand and turned it over, tracing circles on his palm. “I suppose this is why you’re lucky to have me. Because I’m going to tell you. Virgil Tracy, you are the backbone of International Rescue. Dare I say you pilot the most critical bird in any operation. What can Scott do if he finds a car hanging on a cliff’s edge that needs to be air-lifted? How else would Gordon complete his missions in time if you weren’t there to carry Thunderbird 4?”</p><p>Virgil shuddered, maybe from the cold, or the patterns her finger made on his palm, or her words. Or all three.</p><p>“You are steadfast and reliable. They may not be flashy qualities, but they are incredibly important. Especially to me. Do you know how rare you are?” She hesitated for a moment. Knowing she was about to cross a line she’d never crossed before. She lifted her chin, crushing down her anxiety. “That’s why it’s so easy to fancy you.” She sighed. Tried again. “You are so easy to love.”</p><p>Virgil looked as if he were about to combust. His chest rose and fell rapidly. His eyes were wet, his lashes spiking. “You love me?”</p><p>Penelope couldn’t feel her legs. She was so scared, so scared but she said it anyway. “Yes.”</p><p>Virgil nodded, slowly, as if in a daze. Then he shook his head a little and reached inside the bag. “I hope this makes up for what I put you through,” he said, keeping the painting turned away from her, so she could only see the back of the frame. “You lost all of them trying to prove a point to me.”</p><p>“It hurt to let them go, but I’d do it again,” Penelope said, admitting this too. She knew it had been wrong to keep his paintings from the world, no matter how badly she had wanted them. Wanted him.</p><p>“Don’t let this one go,” Virgil whispered, handing the painting to her. “I made it for you.”</p><p>The canvas was smaller than any of this other paintings. Twenty-by-sixteen inches, if she had to guess. She turned the painting over and laid it in her lap. Her heart swelled when she realized what he had painted.</p><p>She saw herself on the canvas from the night of Lemaire’s fashion show in Monte Carlo. Virgil had painted her standing on the <em>Seaduction’s</em> shadowy deck. Pinpricks of golden light spilled over her like raindrops from the strung lights overhead. The Penny in the painting was facing away from the viewer, only just looking over her shoulder at whoever was approaching. Her jaw was lost in the puff of her faux-fur collar, her cape hiding the rest of her body from sight. The tiara in her loose blonde hair glittered like starlight. Her lips were parted, as if she was about to say his name.</p><p>“I know it’s not quite how it went,” Virgil said, filling the silence, “but this is how I felt when I ran into you that night. I thought...” if he could blush, she was sure he would have done it then, “I thought you were a goddess. I still do.”</p><p>No one had called her a goddess before. She would have remembered that. Probably laughed it off as a joke, something a drunken sod would have said before trying to grope her under the table. But Virgil was deadly serious. The awe and yearning in his voice tugged at her. Broke down the last of her reserves.</p><p>A hot, prickling sensation tickled the back of her neck. <em>No, no, no. No crying. Not now.</em> She tried to suck it back in, swallow down the burning tears, but it was too late. She gasped when she felt the first hot tear slide down her cold cheek.</p><p>Virgil took the painting from her, sliding to back into the bag. “Penny,” he whispered, shifting closer. “Penny, what’s wrong?”</p><p>She was glad he took the painting. She wouldn’t want to ruin it by crying on it. Not that she could tell him. Not one articulate word could pass her lips at this point. She made those awful sounds again, like a cat retching.</p><p>Virgil shifted again, so his legs bracketed hers, and gently wiped the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he murmured, sounding unsure but still so steady.</p><p>She held up her finger, trying to tell him that she just needed more time before she could gather herself again. To open up her throat to words. Her vision was blurred from the tears, but she was sure he nodded. Well, then.</p><p>With that settled, she rode the wave of her relief and love as it poured from her in salty tears. Towards the end, as she trembled with his hand on her shoulder, his thumb catching her tears, she watched him lick her beaded tear from his thumb—and she wanted to chase it into his mouth. The need burned through her, drying her up.</p><p>“I can’t...” she tried, sniffling, wiping her nose with the back of her hand, “I can’t speak when I cry,” she finally said.</p><p>“Oh,” was his soft answer. Understanding lit his eyes.</p><p>“It’s an unfortunate affliction,” she said, unable to look away from his mouth. “So I try not to cry ever. When you found the gallery, I was about to...” To cry. And if she had, it all would have been over. To her, if she had let herself break like that upon his discovery, with his accusations, she might never have stopped crying.</p><p>“That’s why you...” his sentence trailed off. He inched closer to her.</p><p>That’s why she what? But suddenly she wasn’t very curious. About that. With great care, she stroked his cheek and cupped his jaw. “I love the painting,” she said, firmly, without anything room for doubt. “What is it called?”</p><p>His nose brushed hers. His eyes drifted closed. “<em>Midnight Rendezvous</em>,” he said, grazing her lips.</p><p>“Yes, I dare say that’s accurate,” she murmured, then pressed her mouth fully to his.</p><p>The kiss wasn’t slow or lingering. Their lips pressed roughly against each other. His hands were on the back of her neck pulling her closer, angling their mouths as if the next touch would satisfy that need to sink into each other’s bones. Penelope opened and moaned, quite loudly, as his tongue slipped in.</p><p>The sound startled them both. They pulled away, staring at each other as their hot, cloudy breaths steamed between them.</p><p>Virgil pressed a kiss to her throat. “Do that again,” he said, “whenever you feel like it.”</p><p>A flush of shame colored her cheeks. She wasn’t sure she could, now that she knew he was listening.</p><p>Virgil stroked her cheeks with his thumbs, as if trying to smooth away her blush. Then he pulled her into his chair and licked into her mouth.</p><p>Another soft, low sound came from her when she ended up in his lap, holding onto the wicker chair’s armrest for balance. Between them both, they were wearing too many layers of stave off the cold. But wherever they touched, he felt hot and lovely. Another bruising kiss, a sharp tug on his hair, his fingers digging into the back of her neck, and Penelope said, “Bed,” her voice thick with desire.</p><p>Virgil nuzzled her cheek. “Where? Yours?”</p><p>Some sense of logic came back to her then. This was morning. All too soon, Lilian and Parker would awaken and move through the house in their merciless cleaning and cooking routines. Despite Thunderbird 2 parked in full view, she couldn’t promise that they wouldn’t be disturbed if they went to her bed now. “Not private enough. Any suggestions?”</p><p>Virgil moaned when she captured his bottom lip and tugged on it. His eyes fluttered open. “What about Thunderbird 2?”</p><p>A delicious thrill ran through her. How perfect would that be? Not the most comfortable location, but it was, in theory, off-limits for what she and Virgil were about to do. The danger called to her. “That sounds delightful. Let’s not waste another moment.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Penelope was once again in Thunderbird 2, only hours after having her cut bandaged. This time, though, her body hummed in anticipation of having Virgil’s hands on her. She felt wicked for what they were about to do, but that sense of the forbidden just fed her excitement. His bird had been parked long enough to have lost whatever heat it had retained on the flight over. No more cloudy exhales though.</p><p>Virgil led her into the laboratory, his gaze hot with promise.</p><p>The moment he shut the door behind her, Penelope stripped off her coat and folded it over the back of the desk chair. She was about to untie the ribboned belt at her waist when he placed his hand over hers, stilling her.</p><p>“Leave it on,” he said, his voice raspy.</p><p>“My dear, this gown will only get in the way,” she said, even as a shiver rolled through her.</p><p>“No, it won’t,” he said with a small smile. “Besides, I don’t want you to catch cold. I can’t run the heater without starting Thunderbird 2’s engines, and that will wake up the other devices.”</p><p>“I see,” she said, watching as Virgil peeled off his robe and unbuttoned his pajama top. “So you’re saying that Jeff and your brothers will assume you’ve finished what you came here to do and try to call you.”</p><p>“Undoubtedly,” he said. His fingers trembled as he worked on the last button.</p><p>“What about you? Why do you get to take your clothes off?” Penelope said, teasing. She didn’t mind. Each button loosened had revealed another slice of skin, the ripple of his abs coming into view.</p><p>“I’ll be fine,” he said thickly.</p><p>Penelope kept her objections to herself, even though she saw his skin pebble from the cold after losing his shirt.</p><p>His hands lingered at the waistband of his pants. The room had a small window near the ceiling and the yawning pink-and-blue morning light made the room soft at the edges. This was no fire-dark night of sex. They’d see everything of each other this time. Maybe Virgil realized that. He took a deep breath and shoved down his pants. No underwear.</p><p>Penelope’s mouth went dry. He was bigger in the light of day. Already stirring, aching for her.</p><p>Virgil looked down at his hands, then scratched at the smear of paint on his cheek. “Let me...” he said, gesturing at his face. “Why don’t you sit over there?” He pointed at the cot.</p><p>The cot. Right. Penelope tore her eyes away from him and hopped up on the cot, adjusting her skirt so it wasn’t tucked as tight under her thighs. Her breathing shortened as she watched him lean over the sink and scrub his face. Her eyes slid to his ass, in full view. Paint swirled down the drain.</p><p>When he came back to her, she raised her face to his and drew him in for a hungry kiss. His skin was damp, the corners of his mouth wet from the sink; she stroked his lips with her tongue and moved away from them to follow the path of that smear of paint from memory.</p><p>“Penny, let me kiss you,” he said, standing between her legs, his head back as she traced his throat with her mouth.</p><p>“Isn’t that what we’re doing?” she whispered against the grain of his skin.</p><p>Her let out an unsteady laugh. “Here,” he said, and his hand was under her skirt, palming her damp curls.</p><p>Her hips nudged into his hand. It felt good, too good. “Yes,” she hissed.</p><p>“Lay back,” he said.</p><p>But she shook her head and inched to the edge of the cot, so that she was half off of it. “I’d rather look at you.”</p><p>Virgil made a soft noise and hitched up her skirt. Then he sunk down to his knees so that he was lined up with the center of her.</p><p>Penelope’s fingers curled into her skirt, crushing the powder blue fabric. Virgil kissed a path along her inner thighs and stroked the sensitive skin behind her knees. Her cotton panties was wet, itching to be removed, but he didn’t lift her hips to get them off. Virgil tugged on the elastic with his teeth. Then he mouthed her through the fabric.</p><p>It was thin barrier between his lips and her. The heat of his mouth through the fabric made her shudder. His tongue was so hot, yet just out of reach, pressing against her in firm flicks and strokes. Her eyes went a little fuzzy as she tried to focus on him. His head between her legs. The way his eyelashes rested against his cheeks, all his concentration on her.</p><p>Penelope was made of steel, though, holding herself up despite the waves of pleasure coursing through her.</p><p>He hooked a finger on her panties, tugged the fabric to the side just a bit, just to get his mouth on her directly. The wet, hot heat of his tongue made her moan and press into him. If she could, she’d dig her fingers into the back of his head and push him fully against her. As deep as he could go. It was too much and not enough.</p><p>The pressure building in her came slowly but steadily. She held on long enough for him to tug the fabric down her hips, for his fingers to brush her folds, gently exploring, for his tongue to push inside her. And then she was gone. She let out a soft sigh, her fingers flexing in her skirt. As her pleasure receded, Virgil held her, tucking his face into the crook of her neck.</p><p>Penelope kissed his temple, his cheek, and tasted herself on his lips when they kissed again. “I’m not done with you yet,” she warned him.</p><p>“Not going anywhere,” he murmured.</p><p>“Good,” she said. She cupped his face in her hands. “Thank you.”</p><p>“My pleasure,” he replied, the corner of his mouth twitching.</p><p>Then she looked down between them. Saw that he was rigid. Leaking. He hadn’t touched himself while he was working her.</p><p>But before she could reach for him, he stepped away. Uncertainty flashed his eyes and he rubbed his jaw. “Penny?”</p><p>Her hands fell in her lap. “Yes, Virgil?”</p><p>He seemed nervous. “Remember what you said before, about being tied up?”</p><p>Oh. That again. Penelope felt her cheeks heat. “Really, dear boy, you don’t need to mention it, I’m—“</p><p>“I bought restraints,” he blurted out. Then covered his mouth with his hand.</p><p>She gasped. “You what?”</p><p>“Well, just in case we...” he made a vague gesture.</p><p>Penelope felt a tickle in her belly. Something new. Something she’d been curious about, but had never really thought she’d get to explore.</p><p>Virgil swallowed thickly and turned toward the cabinets. He rustled through them, found the packaging. “There’s something... Penny, I...”</p><p>“What is it?” If he didn’t want to, she would be fine. Really, she hadn’t expected this kind of surprise.</p><p>He shook his head. Frowned. “I’m not comfortable with tying you up. If I tried, I’d probably just untie you right away, because it’s not what we’ve taught, you know, in the rescue business.”</p><p>But he still opened the box as he spoke, still took out the restraints. They looked soft, like silk, and clearly were meant to attach under the mattress. That would work for the cot.</p><p>“But I’m willing to be tied up myself. If you’re okay with that,” he said with a tentative smile.</p><p>His words, that look on his face—that he trusted her completely—nearly undid her. Penelope had never given a second’s thought to Virgil being restrained. Now that she did, catching on her imagination like a wildfire, she couldn’t turn down his offer. Too choked up for words, she nodded. Then slid off the cot to help.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Virgil held very still as he lay spread eagle on the cot. He tried to relax as Penelope hovered over him, binding his ankles first, then his wrists to the mattress. He blew out a series of short breaths, trying to gain control over the panic gathering in his belly.</p><p>“I’ll be back in a minute,” Penelope said, patting his shoulder.</p><p>He turned his head to watch her cross the room, pull open drawers and find a rubber.</p><p>The cot was cold without her. He shivered as goosebumps traveled along his body. His chest rose and fell. He tugged on the restraints, felt them bend but hold with his movements. Virgil licked his lips. Realized he wasn’t scared, but he needed her there with him.</p><p>So when she came back, when her hungry gaze roamed over his body, he made a soft noise and squirmed.</p><p>“Dear boy, you’re tense,” she said, standing at the end of the cot. “Whatever for?” She kneaded his feet, digging her thumbs into his arches, rubbing warm circles along his toes.</p><p>Virgil felt himself unwind, caught up in the tender way she touched him.</p><p>She lightly dragged her nails up his legs, still standing next to the bed, out of reach except for where she was touching him.</p><p>His eyes fluttered closed. He felt a little like a specimen trapped in a jar with air holes punched through the lid. It was difficult to breathe, to think, knowing that her touch could become more daring—and what would he do then? His hips wouldn’t lift very far off the cot. His ass rubbed against the sheets, getting friction where he didn’t need it.</p><p>Her fingers traced lazy patterns along his thighs. Then she finally hopped back up onto the bed, straddling him. “Better?” she asked as her gown pooled around her.</p><p>“Yes,” he whispered.</p><p>She avoided his throbbing shaft, placing her hands on either side of his head. But the folds of her skirts fell on him there, tickling him madly each time she moved. Her hair fell like a curtain around her face. Penelope kissed him, dipping her tongue into his mouth.</p><p>The restraints dug into his wrists as he kissed her back, losing himself in the hot flick on her tongue against his, the way their lips just seemed to fit perfectly together.</p><p>Penelope trailed soft kisses down his cheek, along his jaw, and found that sensitive patch behind his ear. She only kissed him there once, licking the underside of his ear, but it was enough to make him arch off the cot, pulling on all his restraints. “Only teasing,” she said, her breath tickling his ear.</p><p>“You’re enjoying this too much,” he said, willing himself to settle back down against the sheets. It took all of his concentration.</p><p>“So are you,” she said, smiling. Her knuckles brushed his cheek. “I’ve never seen you blush before, but you’re all red now. Imagine that.”</p><p>He was? Virgil honestly couldn’t tell. He felt both hot and cold all over. Overly sensitive and worried he wouldn’t last long enough for her.</p><p>Penelope leaned higher over him, pressing a kiss into his hairline. “Go on,” she said.</p><p>Her chest was right in front of him. The slit in her neckline opened the way for him to reach her breasts. Virgil nosed his way inside, finding the soft curves of her breasts with his mouth. He kissed and licked wherever he could reach as she played with his hair, scratching along his scalp.</p><p>Penelope pulled away, sliding down his chest. Her blue eyes dark, focused, she traced the hard planes of his chest. “I never did find out about here,” she said, brushing her thumb against his left nipple.</p><p>Virgil made a sharp sound when she pressed her mouth to his nipple and sucked.He lost track of the time then, sparks of pleasure blooming where her mouth lingered she gave both his nipples ample attention. He was so hard it hurt, and the fabric of her gown kept sliding against him there, driving him to the brink. He didn’t want to ruin her nightgown. God, how embarrassing would that be?</p><p>When Penelope pulled back, she looked at his wrists, must have seen the straps had started rubbing him raw. “I’m not going to draw this out any longer,” she said solemnly, though her eyes twinkled.</p><p>“Whatever you want,” he choked out, meaning it.</p><p>“I’ll be doing us both a favor,” she said with a soft laugh. And just to show him what she meant, she pressed down on him, against his belly, where he felt her wetness. She was more than ready.</p><p>The cold air made him hiss when she pulled away to grab the rubber. She opened the package and rolled it on him.</p><p>His hips twitched and he moaned, unable to stop the movements now.</p><p>“Easy, easy, not yet,” she murmured, stroking his hair, settling him only slightly. “I love you.”</p><p>Her words startled him out his lust-filled haze. He watched her gather her skirt up against her waist, hitching it up, and said, “I love you too, Penny.”</p><p>“Good,” she said crisply. “So trust me.”</p><p>What happened next wasn’t quite what he expected. Penelope flattened herself nearly vertical, like a cat stretching herself along his body. She gently wrapped her fingers around him, guiding him into her wet heat, but only up to his tip. Then she moved. Not thrusting, but grinding into the base of his shaft.</p><p>Virgil murmured her name, over and over, as they rocked in a slow, steady rhythm. Her wet heat pulled at him, only just. The grinding made him restless with pleasure. When she ground up, he dragged his hips down, and Penelope whimpered into his hair.</p><p>His lips found hers. He sucked on her tongue and felt her moan into his mouth. Virgil spasmed and came inside her. She was right behind him, with a soft “oh” that made him tingle down to his toes, even as he shuddered through his own pleasure.</p><p>Penelope rolled off of him, wedging herself between him and wall. Her expression was so warm, so full of love that he didn’t want to blink and see it disappear. It didn’t. She ran her fingers over his face, tracing his cheeks, his mouth, the line of his throat. Then she seemed to remember something. “The restraints,” she said, with a hiccuping laugh. “Sorry.”</p><p>He’d forgotten too. Just for the moment.</p><p>She untied his wrists and rubbed the raw skin there. “That went well,” she said, frowning at his skin. “Probably.”</p><p>Before she could move to untie his ankles, Virgil pulled her against him and pressed a hard kiss to her temple. “It was perfect,” he told her. </p><p>Penelope shivered against him. “I did miss your touch, as fun as that was,” she admitted, snuggling into his arms.</p><p>“Next time it’s my turn,” he said, thoughtful. How exactly would that go? Could he really do that with her? He wasn’t feeling as anxious about it anymore as he was in the beginning—though he’d probably see red if her wrists ended up as scratched as his did. They’d need to do something about that.</p><p>Penelope bit her bottom lip and a thrill ran through him. “Next time?”</p><p>“If you want it,” he said, sliding his fingers through her hair. “If you want me.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” Penelope said solemnly. “How you spoil me, indulging in my every fantasy and gifting me with a very rare, precious Virgil Tracy original. I’ll hang it over the fireplace in the gallery.”</p><p>“It’s only the first painting,” he said, his voice heavy with promise. “You’ll have your full gallery again.”</p><p>“I’ll have you,” she said, her eyes catching and holding his.</p><p>“Yes, you will,” he said.</p><p>“Jolly good,” she said with a perfectly straight face.</p><p>He cupped her cheek as a wave of emotion overwhelmed him. He heard the monotrain whistling in his ears, felt the darkness wrapped around them and the soft punch of her anxious breath ghosting over him. There and now. They weren’t in the tunnel anymore. The sun illuminating a new day, washing over them in the rather unconventional haven of Thunderbird 2. He had loved Penelope Creighton-Ward for so long, carried her like gem in his pocket, perfect and glittering-cold. But not anymore. Now they belonged to each other. He saw her, the <em>real</em> her, and never wanted to look away.</p><p>Penelope ran her foot along his inner thigh. “My tea did get cold,” she said. “I believe we need a new pot and perhaps Lillian can make us a nice breakfast. Would you like that?”</p><p>His heart felt hot in his chest. He swallowed and nodded, too overcome to speak.</p><p>“Very well, then,” she said. Penelope sat up, adjusted her nightgown primly. “Tea it is.”</p><p>He’d never been so happy to hear the word “tea.” Virgil pushed himself up, straining the ties on his ankles to steal one more kiss from that perfect pink mouth of hers. He felt her lips curl beneath his, another smile. Behind his eyelids, he saw the future unraveling in possibles. He saw her gallery, filled with paintings of her, of them, and all the wonderful moments to come.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I can’t believe it! This is the lap final chapter. We made it. It’s happened tjrktjreljtlrh </p><p>I’ve warned you all in the tags, but Penelope’e blue nightgown has finally made it into my fic after all these weeks! I love that nightgown so much. It’s perfectly understandable to me that she walked around the train in it just as she was. You might also be able to tell that the opening scene is inspired by Pride &amp; Prejudice 2005. I mean, when I first dreamed up this fic, I saw Virgil crossing the lawn in his pajamas, walking towards her, and it was just a matter of figuring out how he and Penny got to that point ;) </p><p>Thank you so much to everyone who has been following along week after week. I never expected this fic to be so long word count wise, but then again, I hadn’t written fanfiction since, like, high school so I really didn’t know what I was capable of haha. It has been such a pleasure to write something just for the pure joy of it. It’s been too long since I’ve created something that hasn’t been for the sake of publication. And yeah, I think I want to keep writing some more fics in this fandom. </p><p>So, I’m taking the rest of the month off from fic-writing to try and complete an original work I’ve been chipping away at for some time. But in April, I’m going to throw myself into my next TOS fic. So far, this is what I know without a doubt I’ll be writing:</p><p>1. TOS John/OC<br/>2. TOS Scott/Brains </p><p>Thanks again for joining me! I’ll see you in the next fic ;)</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I think I’ve shipped TOS Penny and Virgil from the moment I watched “The Perils of Penelope.” The idea for this fic came about when I noticed that Alan’s portrait showed up in “The Duchess Assignment” - I never expected to see it again! And on top of that, it shared a scene with Penny. So it made me wonder: did Penny see that portrait while she was checking out the exhibition? And if so, did she know it was of Alan (and that Virgil had painted it?). What would Penny do if she knew? And why would Virgil have sold the painting in the first place? These questions led to this story. </p><p>Takes place during the events of “The Duchess Assignment,” but then I’ll be deviating from there. </p><p>The title of this fic is from “Art Exhibit” by Young the Giant. Same for the chapter title. Such a good song!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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